


Valar Morghulis

by The_Northern_Wolf



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arya Deserves A Happy Ending, Badass Arya, Comfort Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Gentle Kissing, Gentle Sex, Heavy Angst, Incest, Marriage, Neck Kissing, Nightmares, Oral Sex, Piquerism, Ramsay is His Own Warning, Ramsay is worse than ever, Rape/Non-con Elements, Recovery, Rough Sex, Sadism, Sibling Incest, Skull Fucking, Slow Burn, Torture, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2019-11-24 09:47:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18163613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Northern_Wolf/pseuds/The_Northern_Wolf
Summary: Arya Stark is ransomed to the Boltons, the final key to the North. She is wed to Ramsay Bolton, and everything changes.. not always for the better





	1. Hunting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SansryaFangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SansryaFangirl/gifts).



Seeing Winterfell again was lurid, bleary and almost lucid. It didn't feel real; the soft bite of cold wind, the tall gray towers where she had spent her girlhood. But it was dark, lit only by a web of braziers and the eyes of the Bolton, Karstark, Whitehill and Umber men. They looked as tall and looming as sentinels, imposing a wordless threat.

Sandor Clegane paid them no heed, trotting up to the gates atop his palfrey. It bickered pitifully, shaking from the hard days ride. Arya Stark felt a deep unease quaver in her chest. It was an emotion foreign to her, but she was biding her time. Little good it did to get away from the Hound.

Arya thought about begging him to ransom her somewhere else, despite the bitter pangs of home. She wanted to leave, to fly away or warg into Nymeria and run. Her only solace was the god's wood, though the trees had blacked down to wicker and were dark, even where the heart tree's face rose. It was all wrong, every stone, every thicket, every fleck of snow. It was all rancid and tasted of tar and ash. Even the wind, once a welcoming chill smelling of pine and sage, now could only be scented by blood, gore and rot.

Was that what Winterfell had been reduced to? Death, decay. Merciless torture. She had heard the stories from passing travelers; granted none of the them lived very long after they came in contact with Clegane. But what they did speak of was the Boltons. Their betrayal at the aptly named Red Wedding, their siege of Winterfell and of course, the torture of Theon Greyjoy. Now there was a man she wouldn't mind seeing on a spit like a roasted pig.

The gates were heavy and rusted, encrusted with blood, though who's she didn't dare guess. "Name?" one of the guards asked gruffly. He was heavy set and had a sunbolt emblazoned on his doublet. Karstark.

"Sandor Clegane," The Hound rumbled. His chest seemed to thrum which each word, a feeling Arya had come to resent. "I trust you know me? If not, my sword is always welcoming of friends."

The Karstark physically seemed slightly frightened. _Green boy._

"O-of course not. On you go."

The portcullis screeched and glowered as they rose, like the howls and yowls of a pack of wolves. She wondered if there were any left out there, wandering the gods wood, guarding the ruin of Winterfell. They entered quickly, a haste canter.

 _He doesnt like the cold anymore than the guards do,_ Arya thought numbly. She had grown past caring about his discomfort; he certainly did not give two shits about hers. It was a mutual hate. She still wanted him dead, better yet at the end of Needle, skewered like a cube of half burnt meat.

What happened next passed as hurridly as if the world was ending. She was dully aware of the faces peeking out of shutters and windows, eyes wide and round like little moons. _Arya Stark has returned from the dead to save us._

They looked so hopeful Arya had to grimace. She would be of no help, at least not yet. She wasn't afraid though; she had seen too much for that. But her stomach churned at the sight of flayed bodies hanging from the walls, draped like red tapetries. Their ribs were showing and caked in a fine layer of stringer flesh. Eyes were either gone or bulging so wide they started leaking. Veins popped and running down their limbs like droplets of wine.

She turned away, bile rising in her throat. That did make her shiver, in spite the cold. Was that Roose's doing? Or Ramsay's?

The guards escorted them inside, though Sandor refused to let her go, leading her by the arm, though his gripe was clamp-like. He had a sober look on his pocked face, as if he was regrretting his decision all over again. She had heard him murmuring in his sleep, groaning. She guessed it was about the Boltons though, Ramsay's name came once or twice. Was he turly that bad?

The room they were funneled into was flush with heat from a roaring fire, and spread with a few men. She guessed that the big, lumbering one was the Smalljon of house Umber, and the more lean, grizzled man was Harald Karstark. Traitors. A third man was in the room, with the pale symbol of house Whitehill on his doublet. Beyond that was Roose Bolton. His eyes were a stormy gray, not unlike her own. But they were so cold, so lifeless, one could see the dead swimming in them.

And lastly Ramsay Bolton. He looked serene enough, though far from graceful. The sight of him made Arya want to hide, to shy away. She had not felt that type of fear in a good long while, and finding herself encased in it hear brought tears to her eyes. _No. I am a wolf. I am strong._

She felt for the coin in her belt, rusted and old but ever firm. _Valar Morghulis._

"So she really is alive," Harald grumbled. "She doesn't look much of a Stark though. Clegane, have you brought us a serving whore or a lady?"

Arya bristled but held her tongue.

"Whore, lady, what difference does it make? You lot are all the same," Sandor said, picking at the side of his face. "Take her and pay me."

Roose sniffed and nodded. "Do as he says." His voice was so soft one had to strain to hear it. Arya was on edge, her nerves fraying like the ends of coiled rope. Winterfell was supposed to feel safe, like home and warmth and family. But it didn't. It felt like a prison.

And with that Sandor was gone, his ring mail clinking as he went. Arya watched him go, and surprised herself by a pang of longing. She wanted him to stay, true enough. It was an easy choice, Clegane or these monsters. She would take a hound over a flayed man, at least one had the decency to bark before they bit.

"Get her cleaned," Roose commanded drily. "I will not have her dirtying my castle."

Arya hissed under her breath as two guards tossed her to a pair of servants. When they found Needle stashed inside her belt, she took her chance. Swinging in a long arc, she caught one of the girl's in the cheek, a spray of blood assaulting the air. She felt no remorse for them, they were all traitorous bastards. The ones who killed her mother and brother. She would have revenge on every single one of them.

Unfortunately the guards came tumbling in like a pack of lose rocks, barking orders and disarming her. She hadn't seen Needle since.

Her bath left her feeling raw and baked like a plucked chicken, and when they tried to shove her into a fur gown she resisted. Her hands were blood where she had clawed at them, but here she stood, clad in the dress. It was chafing and too big, obviously meant for someone with a bigger chest and more meat on their bones. But as she was led back to the hall, that was the least of her worries.

But who she was led to was only two, not five. Father and son, Roose and Ramsay. She despised them already; even the scent of the bastard. He always smelled of metal, like blood or molton steel. It made her sick.

"M'lady," Ramsay bowed, and she couldn't decide if he was mocking her or not. "I hope you were well seen to?"

"They left with a few more scars than they had before," She said. She glared at him but it did little to erase his smirk. _I am just a hapless child to him._

 

 

***

 

It was the following morning, after a breakfast that tasted of ashes, that she truly let the words sink in. _Betrothed to Ramsay Bolton._

She was fuming, bending her fork as far as it would go. She wanted to run, to stab everyone and hang their guts in place of the bodies along the walls. But she couldn't, no more than she could escape the bonds of her betrothal. It was so sudden her sleep mocked it as a folly, but when she woke it was the talk of Winterfell. Everyone knew. She was going to be Queen in the North someday, but with a husband known for mutilation and torture.

What would people think?

She thought of Jon at the Wall, a world away. So far.. yet so close.. If she fled, could she ride to Castle Black? Even the Shadow Tower or Eastwatch-By-The-Sea would work. She just needed out. Anywhere.. the Vale.. the Reach.. the Riverlands.. somewhere!

Sansa came to mind, but she was a Lannister now, stuck in King's Landing supping on warm foods and the dances of fools. She must be eating that up, making friends even. She hated the thought, resented it even, but she still ached for her family. Even Bran and Rickon, though gods knew where they had scuttled off to in the mayhem.

It was near midday when she was walking along the ramparts overlooking the gods wood, trailed by a fleet of guards, that she came across Ramsay Bolton. He was bigger than she thought at first, and towered over her. He was grizzled but had a glint in his eyes. "M'lady," he said, mimicking his actions of the night before. Gods she hated that, almost as much as she hated Sandor Clegane.

"Ramsay," she wasted no time on unearned formalities. He frowned but said nothing, instead turning and waving his hand behind him. There stood a man, shaking not from chill but from fear. His eyes were downcast, his hair salty and his cheekbones hollowed like round pits. Theon Greyjoy.

She growled and clenched her fists, feeling her body surge with hate and rage. But he only backed away from her, whimpering a little. That made her stop. What happened to the man she knew? The one who smiled at every little thing, the one that made a joke even the most dire of states? For once, she thought she missed his jabs. But he was a traitor, believed to have killed her brothers, and betrayed Robb and her Mother. That was unforgivable.

"Arya, meet Reek," Ramsay said proudly, like a father talking of his child. "He is much improved from the last time you saw him, I believe. Much more obedient. Useful even. Reek, will you explain?"

Theon- Reek nodded meekly. "I will serve you and the Boltons. They are just and true of right."

Ramsay smiled sweetly. "Isn't that right?"

Arya snorted. "The Boltons of the North.. doesn't have enough a ring to it, does it?" She smirked. "You are no kings, nor are you true Northmen. Only traitors and bastards."

Ramsay's eye twitched as he pondered a moment. His eyes were cast to Reek who seemed to understand a subtle message between the two. He stood and shuffled over to her, though Arya was aghast when he _hit_ her. It was a full force hit, one like the snap of a whip.

Her eyes went wide but she didn't made a noise.

Little did she know that would become more of her reality than she would ever be like to admit.

 

***

 

Sansa was shook to her marrow when a raven to the Vale arrived from Wintefell. _Arya is alive, and she is to wed Ramsay._

She played the words over and over again in her head, but the simplicity of them spoke volumes. She bit her lip, looking out into the Mountains of the Moon. They were bright this morning, layered in caps of bright sun and glimmering snow. But Arya..

She shook her head. Her little sister was alive, and yet here she was, lounging with an army at her heels and the lords of the Vale in her palm. What was she doing? Nothing.

Her guts churned as she flipped the parchment, exhaling slowly and rubbing her temples. "Arya, hold on."

 


	2. Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Ramsay Bolton. Need I say more? You all saw this in the show anyway..
> 
> Except for the last part.

A light dusting of snow pattered against the cobbles as Arya walked, reminding her sourly of what Winterfell once stood for: home. It was far from that now, just a husk of the keep which she had once enjoyed so sweetly. Now it was a prison, one with bars of rust and rot and a man to boot. She felt out of place, if not entirely unwanted.

The alter was surrounding by a few people, though none of them looked pleased to be there. It wasnt from the chill that downed their moods, but instead the subject of this occasion: Arya Stark's wedding. It was something none thought to have seen so soon, if at all. She kept forgetting that until a few days ago, she was thought of as dead. Her corpse lost and her story even more so.

She bit her lip.

Ramsay stood watching like a sentinel, looking none too hansom. He looked more out of place than her, a wry grin plastered to her face like mortar. It only made him look even more sickly; pale in the globes of light.

Arya walked up beside him, wearing a dress adorned in lace and fur. It felt comfortable but again, it was not meant for her body. The train draped across the snow, wetting it to a dark grey instead of white. She hoped it ending up muddied and brown. She cared little for this pleasantry.

The septon looked uncomfortable, hissing through clacking teeth. But as the girl and man stood facing each other, he said his words dutifully. It was when he finished that Arya felt even worse, bile rising in her throat. She was no longer a Stark, she was a Bolton. She felt her stomach drop like a stone, and her face pale. If she was not a Stark, what was she? She was no one.

As she was led back to her chambers, awaiting her lord husband, she had a vivid idea of jumping from the window, running off into the forest. She wondered if Nymeria was still out there; her dreams proved so. Perhaps she could find her.. they could run away together, and she could be a wolf again.

Reek was the first to enter after her entourage left, and it took her a moment to realize why he was there at all. He needed to be present for the consummation of such an ordeal; it made her want to retch. He shook as if cold and his eyes twitched; he looked like an old codger to be truthful.

And finally, Ramsay entered.

He stood poised like a tense cat, though with all the grace of a tout bow string. He screamed self confidence, something she despised. But he smiled kindly, shutting the door wuth a soft thud.

 _This is Mother and Father's old room._ Arya thought numbly. _Where they shared all their most tender and vulnerable moments. It's wrong to be in here._

"You look lovely," Ramsay said, sparing Reek no glances.

"I looked lovelier covered in mud and blood thank you very much," she glowered. "Perhaps that of your betrayal- you seem to love blood."

Ramsay frowned. "I do hope there are no hard feelings for that arrangement. I had hoped you understood that that wedding was the Frey's doing. I was not even present. And, if my father tells it true, neither were you."

She scoffed. "You helped the Freys. You helped Roose. You helped slaughter my family!" Despite her best efforts her voice shook. "Do not claim innocence, bastard."

His eye twitched.

 _He hates being called a bastard,_ she internally smiled.

"So what if I did?" Ramsay shrugged, stepping closer. "It makes no difference now. I do not need your love, I need your maidenhead. Your comfort is not a necesity, you must understand. I am now heir to the North, and you were the key. What happens to you next is.. well- entirely up to you."

Arya hesitated. _If I die now it makes no difference. He is wed to a Stark, he is the heir to the North. I truly am no one._

She reatreated a step as he advanced. She looked to Reek but his eyes were downcast and glowering, as if the nails in the floor held more interest than his- master.

"Did you not hear me?" Ramsay asked. His voice was unnervingly calm, smooth like a slab of quartz. It made her shudder. What was he hiding beneath that voice? "I need your maidenhead. Bend over."

Arya's feet felt like they were rooted to the floor, mocking his stance. She stood her ground, trying to stop her shivers. What would he do to her? She had heard of what he did to people, and was no stranger to the fact that Theon was now a eunuch, but she had never seen for certain what he did in the face of defiance. She didnt want to find out, but also refused to give in like some obedient dog.

Ramsay growled low in his throat, grabbing her shoulders and forcing her down. She yelped in surprise as her face was shoved into the covers. They smelled like him: blood and metal. Gods how she hated it, the scent. It was like blood and guts- and death.

She heard the soft scuttle of footsteps before "No Reek. Stay. You watch."

Arya shuddered, feeling Ramsay's weight pressed against her back. She could feel something brushing against her thigh and squirmed. Her arms felt like limp twigs, unable to move. Her heart sped up, racing inside her chest.

She whimpered when she felt hot, wet breaths against her ear. "Do you want this done the easy way, or the hard way?"

She didnt answer but instead shut her eyes. _Fear cuts deeper than sword. I am a wolf-_

Cold air stung her back and she gasped, realizing her dress had been torn down the back. She had never felt so exposed. Even when she was on the road with Yoren, paddled when she started a fuss. Even when she was taken by Gregor and made a servant. Even when people threatened to beat her, to rape her, to cut off her feet. It didnt compare to this.

She had never truly believed in love; even her Mother and Father had their issues. But now she was sure. A wedding meant joy, if not then then later. But she knew she would never- could never love Ramsay. Just the thought of him, the feel of him made her weak and shaky.

It was only when he pushed into her, hips bucking and with a ferocity of a beast that she cried. The tears were hot and large, like small crystal beads running down her cheeks. It wasnt even because of the pain; she felt utterly helpless. For once there was no out. There was no Gendry and Hot Pie, there was no Sandor Clegane to ride off with her to a better, promised place. There was no one in the world left to protect her.

 

***

 

The next morning she woke with an ache between her legs and a stinging on her chest. Bites. She felt gross, dirty and covered in a layer of grime no amount of water would wash away. She had felt pain before, dealt with cruelty and misery. She had survived, so this didnt feel much different. But it was the idea, the thoughts of what he had done. She could practically still hear his grunts and groans on her ear, the squelching suck of his teeth and tongue.

She rolled over and retched, whimpering as she sat back up. Her head spun and she grunted. She was trembling, though incredibly hot. It all felt like a lucid nightmare, but oh so real. She wanted to wake up anywhere else, King's Landing where she could chase cats with Syrio Forrel; Yoren's camp where she had made allies, Sandor's stead where she could hunt and train. Anywhere but here. Anywhere but home.

No maids came to help her, and no one dared visit. She was thankful but also afraid. What did people think of her? Surly they thought she was craven, coward, anything but a brave wolf. It made her want to cry all over again, spilling her tears like a spurting fountain. But they seemed to freeze in her eyes and all she was left with was a cough and a choke.

Her bath, despite steaming, was cold. Icy and rancid. She hated it, and as much as she scratched and scrubbed at her skin, she could not remove the dirt that wasnt there. She hit the water in frustration, looking down at herself.

She was small, not womanly at all. But he had used what he was dealt, dutifully. Her small chest, now painted in wreaths of bruises, her skinny thighs dipped in red crescents where his teeth and nails had sank. She was disgusted by what she saw, even more so by the reflection that looked back at her.

Her screams echoed off the walls, all the way down into the dungeons. She wanted to weep, to wallow forever. No one was coming to save her. Not now, not ever. "I am afraid," she whispered. "I am no wolf."

 

***

 

The day passed with a lurid sluggishness that made her stiff. She didnt fight the dresses anymore, nor the powders and makeup. The fancy foods or the jeers and mocks from the guards. They had always looked down at her anyway.

When she saw the boys practicing in the yard though, something left in her chest. Could it be..? Sandor Clegane wielded a great sword, clasped between his meaty fists like a club. He wore a new donning of silver plates and ringmail, covered in red boiled leather. A flayed man sigil dotted his pectoral, and she knew what had happened.

_That bastard.._

She grit her teeth. A crack of flame erupted in her chest, fluttering past her ribs. That traitorous fool. She wanted to rush down there and hit him, flay him, make him scream. She wanted to see his blood. She wanted to see him die. 

"You are being hunted," She whispered. "By a wolf of Winterfell."

Thats when she heard the voices.

No. Not voices. _Moans._

Grunts and sighs, pants like dogs in heat. She followed the sound, her feet acting of their own accord, drawn on by an invisible string. Just below the yard, in a black hallway was a door. It had a slight crack in it, and between the giant wood slab and the stone came a noise that made her stomach coil like a pit of snakes.

Ramsay.

Against all reason and logic she peeked inside, seeing a swath of light wafting in from a thatched window. Below it was a bed, though it rustled as if it breathed. Two people were tangled there, one the unmistakable sweaty form of Ramsay. The other was a girl that was vaguely familiar, and Arya racked her brain for a name.

It didnt take long before Ramsay was panting her name.

_Myranda._

Arya was confused, but also comforted. If Ramsay had a mistress then maybe he would leave her be.. she begged for it to be true, but it was a fleeting hope.

She jumped when a hand rested on her shoulder.

"Little bitch," Sandor hissed.

His burnt face glistened wetly with sweat, his grieves still riding up his fat wrists. He looked dreer, a sneer playing on his lips. "Dont you know not to stick your nose where it doesn't belong?"

"Dont you?" She spat back. "You didnt have to sell me to the Boltons. My aunt in the Vale- my brother at the Wall. Anyone but them!"

Sandor huffed. "Whatever got me paid quicker, girl. They paid a fine price, and wine and a new sword. What more could I want? I never cared for you."

She didnt know why, but those words stung. She felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes and she batted her heavy lashes, turning away from him to hide her hatred. She would say his name every night, along with all the others. But now he would be number one.

Suddenly she felt breath on the nape of her neck and turned to see Ramsay. Gods was he always so tall?

Myranda was sprawled on the bed, a smirk on her face. She looked serene, though in a snappy way, as if she was a snake coiled to snap. It put Arya on edge, among other things.

"The Hound was right," Ramsay frowned. "You shouldn't stick your nose where it doesn't belong."

He hasrhly grabbed her arm, hauling her past the door. She stumbled, watching as the heavy wood slammed shut behind her. With it left the Hound, her last hope. It was her only chance of escape, and now he was gone. She felt like breaking down all over again. It would be much easier than fighting it.

Myranda giggled bubbly, sensing something Arya didn't.

"What are you going to do to her Ramsay?" She purred, pulling the sheets against her full breasts. She bit her lip seductively.

Ramsay seemed to ponder for a moment, his lips crooking into a grimace before he grinned. He toyed was a strand of her hair making her shiver. She recoiled but he caught her arm again, pulling them flush together. "Your eyes have seen too much, little girl."

He pulled away from her then, causing her to stumble back. She watched him as he slowly reached across the window sill to where a small, flat blade lay. She stepped away from his as he approached again, her back pressing against the door.

She panicked, searching for the knob to escape, but her fingers were shaking and she fumbled with it. He smiled, running the flat of the blade against her cheek. It was cold like ice, glinting with the promise of blood.

"You know, my cock has found its way into it seems the entire North, though I can think of a few things I would like to do," He licked his lips. "If youre good, Ill finish early."

Arya didn't understand until he started to dig the blade in under her eye.

 

 

 


	3. Suffering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There goes the last of my innocence. God I cant believe I wrote this- but I think it is something Ramsay would do, which is terrible but true. THIS IS VERY MATURE AND BAD AND GAH. BE WARNED.

She couldn't move. In fact, she felt as if the door had grown claws and had sank them into her back, holding her tight like a clench. She couldn't go anywhere anyway; Myranda had sat up on the bed, biting her lip and swinging her legs. Her serene expression denied any sense of disgust or dismay at what was happening.

The knife's point was cold; that was the first thing she felt. Cold. It bit her skin like a thousand sharp teeth, but it was in all the wrong places.

Next came the sting, hot and swift as a white poker. It contrasted poorly with the freeze and only caused her to gasp and squirm. But his body pressed against her, and her movements seemed to urge him on.

She could _feel_ the knife wriggling behind her eye like some putrid worm, pressing against the sensitive flesh that had her whimpering. Water was flowing from her eye, salty tears. She soon realized that the liquid had turned to blood as he _tugged,_ making her scream.

The pain was beyond anything Arya had ever endured; far worse than any beating or reprimanding she had gone through over the past couple years. It was searing and burning, freezing and pressing. Her head felt like it was being compressed under a stone. She dug her fingers into the wood, feeling her nails rip open. She screamed, her head jerking away of its own violation.

Ramsay hissed but the work was done.

There was a sickening _pop_ that had her truly crying, reeling downward until she was crumpled to the floor, sobbing. She couldn't see through the pain, or was it the blood? It all mixed together in a firey blaze as she clutched at her face, red seeping through her fingers like a dam breaking.

Ramsay tsked, kneeling down next to her.

It took Arya a moment to realize her eye was still there, but _hanging._

Bile rose in her throat as a scream tore through it. The pain reared in her skull as she tried to do something, anything. But it was there, against her cheek. She retched, unable to focus on anything but the white hot fear coursing through her veins.

"Poor thing," Ramsay cooed.

Arya's vision swam this time, clouded heavily by blood and tears but also black. The pain was subsided to shock, but it still thrummed. She screamed again, doubling over. Then something snapped and the flesh that was holding her eye tore, causing her to shriek.

She couldn't see it, but even Myranda looked aghast, turning away and shuddering. Blood was everywhere, pooling like a carpet. The room smelled of metal and the after affects of sex, dulled by a pinch of screams and pain. Did pain have a scent? Arya was delirious and thought it must be so.

Her senses screamed and wailed like dying animals as she clawed for anything, a grip on something to stable her. But instead she found herself clutching something tattered and thread-bare.

Ramsay roughly grabbed her shoulders and forced her to kneel. She balked again, shuddering like a violent storm. Her throat burned from her whimpers which died to cries. She tried to stifle them but all logic had fled her, lost as everything she ever knew. It made her reel, but she couldn't move. His hands held her in place, like some sort of metal clamp. Not that she would be- could be going much of anywhere.

She heard a rip, perhaps, and then a grunt.

Somehow, with some hellish sense she knew what was coming. This time she really did try and fight; removing her hand from her eye. The gelid air stung but she ignored it, kicking at him with all her might. She screamed again. "Help!" She tried to shout. But a spurt of blood rushed up her throat and she choked, falling against the door.

 _Sandor! Please! Anyone! I cant- PLEASE!_ Her thoughts were crazed. _Father! Mother! Robb! Jon! Sansa!_

She didn't feel it as her skull rocked back, hitting the wood as something large went _through_ her skull. Through her bloodied eye, where it had been anyway. It stung slightly as the shock ebbed away, but she didn't allow herself to think. Even when he set a steady pace, his hips jerking to a rhythm. She cried, sobbing but did little to stop it.

"Ramsay!" Myranda gasped, rising, bare naked, from the bed, pulling on his shoulders. Arya saw the vague shapes, though they were blurred and rippled with smoke. All she saw was his skin, pressed against her face, inside her eye. It made her retch, it made her scream and wail though even to her own ears it sounded fleeting. The bruises of the past night forgotten, her wind was on one track, and it all led to misery.

Finally, it stopped. She felt her head pounding, but when he released her she fell to the ground, shutting her eye and trying to die. She curled in on herself, cold save for the blood still dripping down her cheek. It mocked her; it mocked her very foundation of pride and persistence, rocking it so far over the edge she doubted it would be seen again. She felt a husk of herself, broken down to a bare shape unrecognizable from any other corpse. She was no wolf. She was no Stark.

 

***

 

"Winterfell?" Littlefinger demanded drily. He pinched his chin, looking pained.

Sansa ignored him, staring down at the inkwells and parchment before her. It all looked archaic and wind-worn, old as the Eyre itself. Lysa's death had only made her weary, so she had taken to solitude. Away from Robert and his wails of loneliness. _Let him suffer,_ she thought bitterly.

"Yes, Winterfell," she replied after a time.

"What ever for? Your sister? She is dead, it is known as far as the Wall. No one has seen or heard word of her since days before your Father's death, and even then people had studded their whispers. The girl is a decoy, a play at the incompetence of small folk. Do not fall for their games, Lannister tricks and the like. They are as truthful as I, and that is a deal to worry for."

Sansa sighed heavily, turning toward the window. Sun fluttered down among the scrolls and papyrus, warm to the touch. It was comforting like a caress, a feel she found herself longing for in the dead of night. But those wishes were fleeting and solemn; she was alone. But was Arya? Or was he right? She could be dead, in fact, that was most likely the case.

And yet..

"So tell me, Lord Baelish, if it is indeed my sister, you would have been leave her to the Bastard of Bolton? And if not, the grounds of Winterfell still beg for revival. It is on my honor as a Stark; not an Arryn. I must go, you should understand."

Petyr frowned heavily. "I cannot simply dispatch my men on such a sudden affront. The entire Eyre is reeling from Lysa's death, they trust me little. Besides, they need time to grieve-"

"Lysa's death was your own fault," Sansa hissed, slamming her fists. "You killed her. You pushed her from the Moon Door. Whatever the consequences of that action are yours to grieve. Call your men, Lord Baelish. We ride for Winterfell."

He blinked. Once. Twice. Then he smiled. "Experience you have had little, and yet it has molded you into more than a little girl," his mirth died. "But give it time. A few weeks perhaps. My blame or no, the fact remains the same. In the meantime, we will start a campaign, rallying their spirits to the task. It boosts moral, a thing in high demand as of late."

Sansa cursed under her breath. _How long can you wait Arya?_

She feared the answer. 

 

***

 

Myranda hauled Arya out of the room, telling the guards to fetch the maester. She was taken to her rooms, the ones she shared with her Lord Husband, to ponder and cry. The tears, whether brought on by the pain or by the lack there of she didn't know. But they came like rushes of showers, like snow. Cold at some points and hot at others.

All the while she shivered, trying to stop the pain by rolling in the sheets. Even after the maester cleaned it out and patched it; a process that left her wailing; she felt the press of misery and suffering. It made her whimper like a small pup. And oh she was cold. No matter how many furs she pulled over herself she was freezing, shivering. That was the first night she slept without saying the names on her list.

The next time Ramsay came for her, a night after, he was rough, but she never felt it. She laid down like a dog, taking his movements without care or attention. He used her yes, and did what he did best, but she didn't dote on it. She was lost within the confines of her mind.

Even when he came with special 'treats' she didn't care. The worst of which had brought tears, yes, but the pain was minimal. And yet every night she had to look at what he did: the small red dots that lined her collarbone where nails had dug and been dug out. It scared her just by the look; like a thousand eyes of albino spiders. That alone made her retch.

And when the maester had to peel away the cloth on her eye to change it out. It was red and pale, the skin dead and her spirit even more so. The sun set and rose without cause each night, and she kept track of the time whenever Ramsay came for her. It was a routine, one that left her battered like a wind torn sail.

Until one day Reek strolled in.

He brought her a tray of food, one that she had no intention of touching. How thin had she gotten? She didn't contemplate.

"M'lady," he said huskily, setting down the tray. But he lingered, as if looking for scraps of food.

She said nothing, watching him with shallow eyes. He shut the door, leaning against it and forcing out a shaky breath. She had never seen him so taut before, so rugged and ravaged. She thought he might burst at the seams.

"Theon," she rasped finally.

He blinked. "Not Theon- Reek."

A surge of anger peaking within her, unbidden and wild. She shot upright with a grimace. "You are not Reek damn you!" She felt tears at the corners of her eyes. "You are Theon! You were like a brother to me! A brother to Robb!"

He lowered his gaze.

"I loved you!" She cried, her voice cracking. "We all did."

He shook his head. "No one."

She growled. "You loved us. I know you did! You were a Greyjoy by name but not by heart! Theon," it was more a plea than anything. "Please.. remember. I- I know how you feel. I know it hurts but- don't you want it to end?"

Tentatively he nodded.

"Then do something."

He caught her gaze before turning away.

She started to sob.

She cried for him, for what he had become. For herself and what had been done to her. For her Mother and Father and brother, all slaughtered like animals. For Bran and Rickon. For Jon at the Wall, possibly beyond. And for Sansa, the sister she never had. What had happened? Where had they all gone?

After a minute a pair of warm arms wrapped around her, gentle and stiff.

Her sobs echoed into his shoulder as he hugged her, but she didn't care. She just needed something to tether to, be it Theon or no. She hadn't realized he was crying to. So they stayed there, waiting, watching, thinking.

"Get me out of here.."

 


	4. Wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alright so I might go back and rewrite the other chapters, just because now I feel like I have a better grasp on the story and the setting, more of the characters and the current plot relevant to the books and show. It might not be necessary, but I tried to flex as much of the canon as possible into this chapters, and hopefully the ones to follow.

The ravens came like flies to a corpse. Everywhere. They clogged the rookery, they swarmed the godswood, and they chortled constantly outside Arya's window. She had grown quite fond of them, naming them each. Some had oily slick feathers while some had puffy downy ones. There was one who who was missing an eye, so she named it Little Arya. They seemed to care more than anyone else what happened to her. Or perhaps she only thought they did.

First came the word of Stannis Baratheon, marching with his host from the wall. A storm was fast approaching, yet all of Winterfell was on edge. She gleaned that Arnolf Karstark, who had been said to have pledged to Stannis, actually fought for the Boltons. If that were true, it would be a bloodbath. Ramsay had laughed at the affair, knowing victory was coming. That was until word of the Eyrie came.

The raven wouldn't shut up, and as Arya watched, neither would the voices in Ramsay's head. He snapped the crow's neck in rage before crumpling the parchment. A large host of tens of thousands of knights were riding out from the Vale, banners of house Arryn streaming from their lances. Arya had heard word of Lysa's death, which, despite her blood ties, only made her chuckle. Then who was leading the knights of the Vale? Ramsay never told her.

The storm had come upon Winterfell, cold and hard. Frostbitten men came in from their watches, limpid eyes and quavering jaws. They were no true north men. Some of the clans from the mountains had come down to join Stannis, the Wulls and the like. She didn't doubt that they would survive this, though as for Stannis she wasn't so sure. He was a southerner, warmblooded. This type of snow was not in his blood, as it was in hers.

Every night she watched from her window, before or after Ramsay's coming, and she swore she could see the far off splotches of scouts. Would they rescue her? Stannis had come from the Wall, from Jon. Did Jon even know about her? And what of the Wildlings? She had heard rumors of them as well. Everywhere across the North things seemed to be happening, none of which Arya knew enough of. But then again, her job was to be quiet and obedient. She barley saw at all.

That night Ramsay held a feast. The winds howled outside, large hills of snow nearly barring the hall shut. Men flooded in, all grumbling and shivering. Food was brought out though Arya had very little taste of any of it. She was well aware of the stares of the lords, the whispers and murmurs behind her back. She had never truly cared about them though, even when she was just Arya Underfoot or Arya Horseface. That only made her miss Jory and Sansa more.

Ramsay was next to her, speaking with Lord Umber, the Smalljon. Wyman Mallister was in attendance, and perhaps the only shred of comedy in the hall. He was large, filling a seat three times even the fattest lord in the hall's seat. He was a mountain of a man, not unlike a heated pile of dough. She knew White Harbor was rich, but he seemed to have gold coming out of his ears.

Reek was there too, though he was eating scraps off the flow with Ramsay's mutts; Red Jeyne and Kyra, the newborn of his litter. It was a sad sight, but Arya wanted to laugh. Hysteria, thats what it was. What else could she do? Her Father's once proud ward was now eating scraps of burnt meat off on the floor. It was truly a sight to behold.

She did notice, however, that Myranda Royce was nowhere to be found. After learning of the knights of the Vale, from where Myranda originated, he undoubtedly set to work. Arya thought she could hear the girl's screams late into the night, but she was never quite sure. Nor did she care.

The Smalljon seemed unruly, though he did spare a few glances towards her. _He knew me once, yet he just sits here now, eating with the North's enemy._ It didn't vex her so much as it saddened her. She was utterly without enemies. Without hope. Unless she were to fall from the eighty foot walls, passing all the guards and running to Stannis who may or may not kill her for a traitor. It was too much.

The singer Able was playing again, and she sourly noticed it was 'The Rains of Castamere". She felt bile rising in her throat and turned away, watching Theon, all in rags once more, groping along the floor. She didnt want to laugh this time.

"The feast to your liking, M'lady?" Ramsay suddenly asked. She could feel his breath against his ear, magnified only by the pounding of her heart. For once the smell of blood had left him, replaced by a sickly odor of spices and grime. It reminded her of Theon, though diluted somewhat.

"Of course, 'M'Lord." The mocking had all but faded from her voice, and she could feel the approval in his gaze.

"Why don't you smile? It is a day to behold. With the false king Stannis on the horizon, and his intimate defeat only days away, there should be something to smile for," he grinned. She wanted to spit in his face but didn't. _I lost an eye last time. Who's to say I wouldn't lose much more now?_ She had seen the fake gloves Theon had worn, stuffed with clouds of cotton to hide his missing fingers. Three of them. Or the wobbly gait in the way he walked, she didn't know how many toes he lost. And also his manhood; she had seen only scar tissue on one of Ramsay's 'special treat' nights. She still felt the welling cuts along her spine, the places where he had _sucked_ at her blood like some deranged bat.

She couldn't bring herself to smile though. She _couldn't._ " _Do what he says. Please him and he will be good to you,"_ Reeks words echoed in her head and she glanced at the table.

She shivered, though not for want of heat. No. She shivered because she felt something on her leg. It was cold and icy, like a sickle of snow after a night's freeze. She didn't look down. Sh recognized the callouses easy enough, the small twitches in his fingers. She didn't even object when he slipped his hands under her small clothes.

No one seemed to notice as he shoved two fingers inside of her, least of all the Smalljon, who was still blabbering to the Bolton Bastard. Arya bit her lip to smother a cry. Small bolts of pain shot up through her. Despite everything she had been through, things like this still felt _tight_ and _raw._ She squirmed slightly, feeling him start to move. _Not here. These men wont here me scream. Not here-_

He started to drag his _nails_ inside her.  She whimpered, clutching the edge of the table, clinging to the wood like she had clung to Theon so many nights ago. _They wont here me scream. They wont. Not here- not here-_

He started to _pinch._ Whatever resolve she had put her faith into moments before shattered and she let out a cry. It was loud, loud enough that Able, all the way across the hall, lifted his head and frowned. His playing stopped and the ladies of his, who had all found themselves into the lap of one man or another, looked to star at her. 

Ramsay finally removed his fingers and she gasped, knowing it was all over anyway. She had earned a punishment, and she would take it with as much grace as she could.

Theon had lifted his head as well, looking quite afraid.

"Reek!" Ramsay called. Arya was surprised to see his was rather calm and collected, his hands clasped on the table, his smile palpable. She wanted to  punch it off his face. _Stop. I musnt think that. Remember what Theon said. Remember what not to do._

Reek stood with a small bow, though his gait was wobbly and his eyes glimmered in a shiny film of fear. Arya swallowed. A small part of her knew what was to happen, and the larger part of her wanted to cry out. No. That would only make things worse. _I will take this like a lady. A proper one. A Stark._

When Reek stood facing the high table, his head bowed. Ramsay frowned but ushered him up, grabbing Arya's hand so she was standing as well. "My lords and ladies, my wife seems to want something, though I would never despoil my house with such acts. Reek, I leave her cravings to you."

Reek trembled slightly but held out his hand. Arya took it and climbed around the table, earning a few grunts from the lords. She noticed Wyman eyeing her up like she was some sort of roast chicken. _Why does it matter anymore? He could have me, all of them could, and it would never hurt so bad as Ramsay._

As Reek started to lead her away, Ramsay cleared his throat. "Not so fast Reek. You stay. Do it here. These men could use a good show."

It took Arya a minute to figure out what was about to happen, and when she did she really did start to lose hope. She felt a deep, yawning pit in her stomach, ready to swallow her whole. She was shaking so badly one might of seen her as sickly or dying. _No. Gods no. Please no!_

Reek started to lift up her skirts, kneeling down. He had never done this before. Theon had been forced to kiss her, or to use his fingers, but never his _mouth._ The mouth with the broken teeth and rotten stench. She whimpered as he tugged at her small clothes, looking up at her with eyes as wide and dark as marbles. They seemed to say 'Im sorry!' before he set to work.

All she could hear were their laughs and gasps.

 

***

 

Arya wasn't sure when she started to cry, but it was in the middle of the act, or maybe before. She never knew. But when it was over Ramsay sent her away where her ladies in waiting cleaned her, though no matter how much they scrubbed until her skin was raw and pink, she still felt so _dirty._ She couldn't even look at Theon. She couldn't look at anymore anymore. Wyman had laughed uneasily, Ramsay had cackled and the Smalljon just grimaced. But the others... she didn't want to think about them.

That night she lay in bed, waiting for Ramsay. She had started an internal clock, she supposed. When the ravens went to sleep Ramsay came in. When the wolves start to howl, Ramsay came. When the sun started to rise, Arya felt the bruises and the pain. But there was no sun the next morning, only snow.

It had been snowing for weeks, and she didn't doubt that Stannis's army, and the Vale's was suffering immensely from it. And even if they wernt, they would still have trouble with rashioning their food and drink. They would die, be it from the Boltons or the North. She couldn't quite bring herself to care.

She wasn't even half so surprised when Reek came in, carrying a steaming bucket of water. To her surprise he was followed by Able's women, most notable the one named Squirrel. She was small and willowy, like her, though her eyes weren't half so grey, and she still had both of hers.

Arya recoiled from them, huddling in the corner under a mountain of furs. _They wont see my scars. The bruises. The mutilation. They wont._

Reek knelt down next to her, seeming more sure of himself. His eyes swam with more regret and pity than fear, and for once Arya felt herself relax. He rested a tentative hand on her shoulder before whispering, "come with us."

At first she assumed it was some cruel jape of Ramsay's; he would get her hopes up, so close to escape, then kill her. Reek had begrudgingly told her of Kyra and how she had run, taking him with her, only to be run down by Ramsay's bitches and murdered. Could the same be happening here? Her better judgement said yes, it was trick. She had to stay. She had to be a good girl. But a small voice in her head kept yelling _look at his eyes. They don't lie._

So she followed.

"Finally," the taller, plumper girl rumbled. Rowan. Her name must have been Rowan. She nodded to Theon he began to dress Arya, a thick cloat of ermine and wolf fur. It felt warm, though scratchy. She had found that as of late everything hurt to touch; her skin ached.

They dragged her out, past the guards, leaving Squirrel in her place. When they started to move faster she had to say "But my eye," to which Rowan grunted. "Head down, Stark. Dont look up and we wont have no trouble."

She quickly learned that this plan had been in the works for a while. It was why Able had looked at her with regret, why the girls had been stiff in their work, and why they were all so quiet and concentrated. But all the same she was glad they hadn't told her sooner. _Ramsay would know._

The problem only came when they ran into a pair of guards doing their rounds on the outer wall. Rowan had a thick rope tied around her waste, for climbing, so Arya assumed, but even now, looking down to the ground, she trembled. Bran had been the climber, not her. Never her. 

Theon wrapped his arms around her, trying to stop her from shivering. The guards that appeared were beefy and large, rippling with sinewy muscle. Though they were pale and one's eyes were so sunken they looked like gaping mouths. "Reek? Who is this?" One of them quipped. "Did you finally find a lover?"

Arya bristled but remained quiet. Theon shook his head. He seemed at a loss for words before Rowan stepped forward. "We'll be going now," she muttered before ramming her shoulder into one of the guards. He rocked noisily on his feet before plunging over the side and into a snow drift as tall as him. Arya could still hear the sick thud when he hit it, his bones shattering and his brains splattering, turning the snow pink.

The other guard looked dumbstruck before, instead of raising a sword, he raised a large brass horn to his lips and blew it. That gave Rowan just enough time to pull out a small kitchen knife and plunge it into his chest. He cried out before falling to the ground, blood seeping from his throat.

"We have to go. NOW." Rowan barked, untangling the rope from her waste.

Arya soon realized that this was the back wall, the one leading to the Kings Road. To the Vale. The thought made her hopefully, a small meager flame. _It feels nice._

Rowan knotted the rope around one of the crenelations, testing it before ushering Theon to go first. He started down the rope, shaking slightly. He was bone thin, his muscles pulled tightly over brittle sticks sure to break. He wasn't more than ten feet down that he started to wane in strength. Rowan either didn't notice or didn't care. Instead she grabbed Arya's wrist, nearly tossing her over the side.

The Stark grabbed the rope tightly, her knuckles turning white. She started to climb down, though the stone was slick and wet. Her fingers started to go numb and she could hear Theon's labored panting as he descended.

Wind as frigid as ice started to blow and Arya was sickly aware that it was blowing into her eye socket. It stung and started to make fake, glistening tears. Or maybe she _was_ crying. Now she didnt care.

Just as Rowan began to climb down, a long spindly bolt took her in the chest. She went silent, her limbs stiffening. She fell, looking like a sack of meat. She screamed though was dead before the winter snows could have at her. Was that even a blessing?

More men started to swarm the walks, all of whom were wearing thick armor and cloaks. They couldn't climb down, Arya realized happily. But her jubilation died when one took out a sword and swung it down in a long, moon-thin arch. It hit the rope, causing it to snap.

And then she was falling.

The air was bitter cold but in a way it felt warm. Like home. She was happy to die like this, the smell of the woods, of the pines and sentinels, and wood smoke from the peat fires over the walls. And the howls of wolves not so distant. She loved it, and for the longest moment, she forgot.

 

 

***

 

Arya awoke with a start, her entire body aching. It hurt to breath, the icy air clamping down on her lungs and pulling tight. She gasped, caughing but all that came up was a hoarse gag. She felt bile and blood rising in her throat, clogging her mouth and nose. At first she thought someone was doing it to her, icy hands clamped down on her throat like a vice. But it was instead icy hands on her shoulders, shaking her.

She looked up, gaze focusing from a foggy blur. Theon looked rugged and old, his hair a greasy white, his eyes pale and empty. They stayed like that for a moment before he hauled her to her feet, though she was shaking.

A stab of pain bolted through her leg and she screamed, falling to her knees. The ground was wet and soft, thick and languid. Snow. At the sight of it all her memories came rushing back, the torment, the torture. With those memories came the pain, searing and simmering. It hid beneath her skin, clawing at her chest, her legs, her back. It was everywhere. All she could do was cry.

"Arya!" Theon was shouting. He looked panicked, his eyes wide and frightening. "You have to get up! We have to go! Please Arya! Please!"

That snapped her awake. She groaned loudly, finding her feet. Sand, or rather numbness, clung to her limbs, stinging like the pinches of beetles or the sharp, immaculate bites of spiders. She didn't have time to contemplate that however, because before she could make a coherent thought, they were running.

Trees passed in a lurid blur, and distantly she could hear the mewls and growls of dogs. Ramsay's Bitches. She had half a mind to stop, to wait for Ramsay, to blame Theon and simply _hope_ that Ramsay wouldn't take another eye, or a foot. Without a foot she couldn't run away.

But she didn't. They pressed forward. The sun was a small disk in the clouds, not quite peeking through, just enough to cast tangles of shadows across the snow. Arya watched as they grew and shrunk, the minutes passing with a liquid slowness, like molten silver. Her thighs burned, though from what type of pain she couldn't say. Her body _ached,_ the feeling of death.

It felt like years before they stopped, chests heaving and throats all but shredded raw. Ramsay's dogs howled in the distance, so far off they sounded like meager claps of young thunder. Arya finally collapsed, feeling the course, thick snow between her fingers. She noted absently that they were black. The color of old blood. The color of Ramsay's eyes whenever he had his way with her. She whimpered before shutting her own eye, trying to forget.

Theon had collapsed as well, though his eyes remained open, a thin film of snow gathering on his cheeks. He puffed out small clouds of air, gelid as it was. _We are going to die out here. Alone and cold. Didnt people always say that you felt warm before you died? Will I?_

A few minutes passed, or perhaps a few hours because dusk had fallen. The clouds were now rimmed in a glossy red, the sky darkening to pitch. The cold only worsened, her fingers going from a dull ache to nothing at all. She had to keep making sure they didnt fall off, though it hardly mattered. _Ill be like Theon._

That was when she saw eyes. They were small golden globes, bright. At first she thought they were twin suns, but they came from the wrong direction, and they were surrounding with dusky grey fur. Arya would recognize the face anywhere. "Nymeria?" She mumbled, her voice so small, so little, she felt like the child she was when her Father had found the direwolf as a pup. But now she was large, her muscles hefty and her eyes all but the size of Arya's palms. 

The direwolf said nothing, and Arya didn't even notice the twin pairs of eyes all around her.

Nymeria crouched down, a small whimper in the back of her throat. On instinct Arya sat up, pushing off the ground. She wouldn't be surprised if all her fingers snapped then and there. But they didnt. "Theon," she said, half a whisper, half a plea.

He rose like some Other, his back hunched and his form shaking. He was half dead, and so as Arya. But together they climbed on the beast's back and road away. Arya didn't say where, and she never had to. She was going home.

 


	5. Snows

Arya was unsure of how long Nymeria ran. Perhaps it was hours, or perhaps it was days. All she knew was that when she closed her eyes, listening to the faint thrumming of the wolf's heart and the aspirating breaths erupting from her eyes, she slept.

It was a peaceful, tranquil sleep, dreamless and dark. But it was warm. Warmer than Nymeria's fur or Theon's scant heat. It was nice, and she never wanted to wake up. For a time she thought that she had died; though it was a good way to go. She was free, in the North, with Theon and her lost direwolf. She was safe. Dying here wouldn't be so bad, though something kept nagging at her. _Live._ It whispered. _Live. Live for Jon, for Theon, for Bran and Rickon and for Sansa. For Ramsay. He needs to die._

Her eyes peaked open. 

Nymeria had slowed to a trot, her sides rippling, though it was evident she had barley broken and sweat. Arya didn't move and instead looked ahead. Thousands of eyes stared back, big bright bulbs, golden and red and orange. No. Not eyes. Fires.

Hundreds of them, scores more than the crows in the rookery in Winterfell. They dotted the hillside along a knoll in a break in the trees. The snow fell heavily, armoring the trunks and stubs of old trees and thickets, the men faring just as well. But there were men. Thousands even. They all huddled near tents of the fires, stoking the flames or whatever meat they had been able to scrounge up in the storm. Arya searched for a banner before her eyes snagged on one. The lance had broken not twenty yards from her, the cloth billowing, caked in a thin sheen of ice. _A bird. Arryn. The Vale._

She bolted upright. Nymeria shifted slightly, trotting forward ever so slightly. Arya noticed that the patter of distant footsteps that had trailed them for miles were no longer present. They hated humans, if she had to guess; a well founded fear.

It was when the first line of wooden stakes burrowed into a thin trench came into close view that the shouts started. The guards nearest her blew a horn, ushering with loud, obnoxious cries. Arya slid off of Nymeria's back, feeling Theon do the same, groaning and rolling in the snow.

"Go," Arya choked out, reaching out a hand to stroke the direwolf's leg. She didn't need to be told twice and bolted.

Arya sat shivered for a few moments, the cold seeping into her bones. The wind howled and bit at her skin, its frosty fangs sunk deep into her nose and ears. She looked down at her fingers, seeing all ten still there, though they were black.

She heard Theon grumble before coming up beside her, wrapping an arm around her. She leaned into the embrace. It wasn't comfortable or even warm, but it was like home. He smelled of ferns and ice, wood smoke and peat. It was a smell she had missed, and hadn't really scented since the first days in Winterfell. But the moment was fleeting as a swarm of men came dashing up the clearing.

They wore large thick silver plates emblazoned with the bird of Arryn, their swords gilded and their faces pale and stern. They were from the Reach, not the North, and Arya had learned to spot when a man was unused to the cold. She felt a jab of pity in her gut, knowing deep down that these men would not hurt her. Lysa was her aunt; they were traveling to take Winterfell, so she hoped; they would save her.

One of the guards knelt down, recoiling as he looked at Arya's face. She would have laughed had she been able, but her lips were glued shut, her eye drooping and her teeth chattering. "Who are you?" One of the men asked. He was smaller than the rest, a scruff of hair peaking out from under his dome of a helmet. He looked kind, though guarded in a way that reminded her of Reek.

She couldn't reply.

"S-Ser," Theon mumbled, his teeth clattering. "S-She is Arya Stark.."

The boy looked taken aback for a moment before regaining his composure and grabbing Arya's shoulder gently, attempting to haul her to her feet. She made a good effert of it too, digging her heals into the ground and piercing her lip with her teeth before crying out.

It didn't stop her from passing out.

 

***

 

"-Stannis has reached Winterfell, according to our scouts," Yohn Royce roared, his mighty voice carrying across the tent. He was a big man not without his charms. Sansa smiled fondly. _He was my enemy once, though Petyr took care of that. A betrothal.._

She shook her head. It wouldn't do to think of Harrold now. _We will marry when we take Winterfell. Not before._ Her mind started to stray to Petyr and she repressed a shudder. His hands had been gentle, true enough, but once he thought she was ready (against her wishes), he had moved quicker and quicker until neither of them could breath. It didn't hurt much, but it didn't feel good. _No. Not now. Now we march.. for home._

"Yet we have not," Petyr mused absently, tapping his fingers against the table. A map had been stretched across its surface, small markers providing a raven's eye view of their advantages. "It makes no matter. Stannis may not be our enemy, but he is far from our ally. Should he take Winterfell, we will accept this and ask for the lady Stark's safe return. Should he fail.. we carry out with our plan."

Everyone nodded, even the stout Lady Anya Waynewood. Horton Redfort looked less enthused. "We should not wait! Rally our forces to Stannis's and take what is rightfully ours! He may be no King In the North, but he is a worthy ally, should we so choose."

"Simple you would think so," Gilwood Hunter muttered sourly, pointing. "Being on opposite ends of the castle, it would be near impossible to send our army in mass to join his. Besides, the storm is too thick, it would be peril and death."

"All we would need are some scouts," Horton argued. "If we pledge to Stannis we will double our army, and make peace with those damn wildlings. We would coalesce and come to an agreement and strategy."

"It would take too long," Gilwood persisted. "We dont have all year. Winter is coming. Winterfell belongs to the King in The North, not some pagan pretender. That Red God of his rubs me the wrong way. Stear clear, if I have to say."

"Enough," Sansa interjected loudly. She rarley spoke at council meetings, but tonight she felt she must. "Stannis is not our ally, nor should he be. He will _not_ take Winterfell, and even if he does, his army will be greatly depleted. We will scout his advances, and, should he fail, understand where and why he did not sucede."

Anya grimaced. "I agree. We all seem to be underestimating the Boltons, and you lot tend to think mightily of yourselves. Stoop down, wont you, and open your eyes. We are at a disadvantage, a great big one. We must plan and tread carefully, lest we suffer a defeat more staggering than ever."

Everyone nodded, though Horton's knuckles popped and his eyes twitched.

"Aye. So, M'Lady, we wait for Stannis's defeat?" Asked Symond Templeton. "What of your siste-"

"M'lords and ladies." A guard walked in. He was skinny and well groomed, though small in nature. His greaves were oversized and he swam in his mail, but he looked stoic nonetheless. _Harrold,_ Sansa thought numbly. It was a queer idea that she was to wed him, especially after what Petyr had 'taught' her.

"What is the meaning of such an intrusion?!" Yohn Royce demanded.

"My apologies," Harrold said. He looked slightly pale, his eyes flickering worriedly through the tent. Sansa was attentive immediately, standing to meet him eye to eye. "What is it?" She asked softly. He would meet her gaze.

"A girl and a man have appeared along our perimeter. They look.. well.." He shook his head. "The one claims to be Arya Stark and I-"

Sansa's eyes shot wide open and she gasped. Everyone had their eyes on her, even Anya whose apathy clouded all else. She swallowed. _Arya would have escaped. She was always wandering around in King's Landing.. surly she found a way out of Winterfell too.._

"Take me to her," Sansa demanded. Harrold nodded.

"Wait," Yohn said, standing. "They could be dangerous, spies."

"Should they prove to be spies," Sansa replied, trying to keep her voice calm, "Then we will deal with them accordingly. But if we turned away my sister.." She didn't finish and instead stormed out of the tent, Harrold hot on her heals.

Her stomach knotted, dread rumbling in her chest and fluttering up her throat. A part of her wanted it to be a lie; a hoax. But deep down she felt a sinking dornick, deep and heavy, weighing in her belly and threatening to burst. _She is strong. She always has been. Even when she refused her lessons.. was that strength as well?_

A few men had settled the two figures near a fire, though one was crumpled on the ground. It was small, smaller than small. The men all looked worried, sneaking panicked glances towards each other. They nearly jumped when Sansa approached, bowing deeply and standing. "M'lady," They murmured, stepping away slightly, as if the figure would bite them. 

_Only a wolf would-_

Sansa felt her heart stop.

The girl was bundled in a thin, ice crusted cloak, part of it frozen to her skin. Her arms were quavering and her breaths were ragged. But gods she was so _skinny,_ even through the furs. Her ribs peaked through the fabric, jutting out like a cow's hips. But the part that made Sansa's lips tremble was her face. Where one eye should have been only a gaping pink pit remained, clotted black around the edges.

She didnt think. "Arya!"

All the men looked shocked but didn't intervene as she fell to her knees. The cold seeped into her breaches and the ermine clouding her skin but she didn't care. She gingerly grabbed Arya's shivering form and pulled her to her chest, trying to wrap her up in her thick wolf-pelt cloak. She knew it wasn't warm enough so she scooted close to the fire, watching as the tongue's shadows danced across Arya's pale cheeks.

"Send for a maester!" She snapped, despairing. Harrold went without answer, his boots crunching in the snow as he ran.

"S-Sansa?" She heard a voice behind her, swiveling her head to get a better look.

"Theon." The word sounded like a curse, a malediction meant to wound and shock. He recoiled, though she could see the fear written oh so plainly in his eyes. _He is skinny too, and wounded.._ "What happened?"

Theon shook her head, looking down to Arya. "S- She.. she didn't listen to him. All she had to do was be good.. and she wasn't. Neither was I.."

Sansa had lost her patience, turning away in disgust. She whiped the gathering snow away from Arya's cheeks, begging, praying for the girl to open her eye. _Grey. They were grey like father's._ The Stark felt tears welling hot in her eyes, burning deep down in her throat. She choked out a sob, pulling Arya closer. _I never cared this much_   _before,_ she realized numbly.

 

***

 

The maester, Colemon, looked stricken and afraid. His eyes had shot wide open, as if pulled but some giant pliers. He looked much older in those moments, with the flames licking his jaw and the crinkles in his leathery skin. He mumbled a curse before shuffling over, ushering two of the guards to haul the small girl up and into his tent.

Sansa trailed dejectedly, the sharp sting of tears now dry and crusted on her cheeks. It all seemed a lurid haze, barley anything but a dream. A nightmare. But in her dreams she had nearly forgotten Arya's face entirely, except her deep grey eyes. _If this were a dream she would look more like Mya or Myranda._

But she was real, and _dying._

Maester Colemon laid her down on a feathered cot, one painstaking to carry but was insisted upon anyway. Sansa was more than thankful for that now, quickly realizing that Arya was indeed suffering from far more than just the eye wound. Layers of fabric and cloth were pulled away and Sansa watched, sucking in breath after breath until it felt like she was going to erupt.

Marks were _everywhere._ They littered Arya's collarbone, small dots of red and clotted blood. Deep gashes and slashes marred her belly, scabs and scar tissue just now starting to form. Bruises rippled across her arms and down to the stretch of her thighs and hips which jutted out terribly. That was when Sansa could bare it anymore. She couldn't. Not when she saw the scratches and teeth marks trailing below the dip in her hips. She couldn't imagine the damage there.

"Im sorry," She whispered.

The Maester set to work, sighing and exhaling shakily. Arya's fingers had blackened with frostbite, which was remedied by a slow encroachment to heat. First closer to the fire then ever so surly into warmer and warmer water. He applied a deep gooey salve to her cuts and gnarled gaps, supplying her with small doses of moontea and milk of the poppy. It did little to stop the small whimpers escaping up her throat. Sansa buried her head when he probed deeper, sucking on his teeth. Finally he moved to her eye, applying dashes of warm water to the frostbite before covering it in more slave and ointment, wrapping a bandage around her head.

 _More bandages than skin are showing._ Sansa felt sick. Her mind was whirling and she felt bile rising in her throat. After what seemed like ages Colemon turned to her, his lips drawn into a tight, nearly twine-like frown. "Her eye was infected, I am displeased to admit. Skin might have to be cut away. The cuts are healing well, for what they are, though I cannot imagine where they came from. And her.. womanhood.. she may never have children, or receive any pleasure again."

 _Again?_ Sansa wondered. _She was so little.. thirteen? Fourteen?_ In truth she had lost count of her own age. _She has never felt pleasure before, has she?_ "Will she live?" Sansa asked, twiddling her shaking fingers, trying to supress an angry shudder racking up her spine.

"We can hope," Colemon stated. He turned to her. "And what of the other? The eunuch?"

"He is a eunuch?" Sansa asked, unable to help herself.

Colemon shurgged uneasily. "Ive seen enough in my time to recognize one. But yes, him."

"Heal him, maester," Sansa instructed. When he bowed and took his leave Sansa knelt down next to Arya, looking at her for a long moment. She smelled faintly of blood and rot, perhaps fur and snow. Her eyes twitched every now and then, letting out long, labored sighs. "I'm sorry," Sansa said again, her breath catching in her throat. "I am so so sorry."

 

 

 


	6. Ravens

There was sun.

It was little and less in terms of providing workable light, but there it was, a small halo, bright and swollen in the sky. The clouds blustered before it, burning up around the rims as if polished in copper and gold gilding. The world seemed less dark this way, though a rumbling of deep grey clouds ringed the horizon beyond the pikes of trees.

The camp had started to pack up, the distant sound of horses wickering the dogs barking was near as loud as thunder, and the shouts of men and lords alike drew many from their sleep. Their going had been slow, trekking through woods rarely traveled, traversing the thick snarls of roots and brambles. The major roads were too full at this time of year, near to bursting with merchants and travelers. But the woods, and smaller game trails and paths were ripe for the taking, if not entirely choked in snow.

Arya awoke slowly. Whether it was from the noise (though she seriously doubted it, her eyes felt fuzzy and her skull thrummed in a slightly pleasant fashion), or simply an urge, she didn't know. She was confused at first, seeing the thick panels of hide along the tent, bristling in the wind. She blinked before panic started to well in her chest. _Where is Ramsay? I have to find him. I have to wake up before him. I have to-_

She looked around more. The tent was sparsely furnished, a few salves and thick jars of ointment sprawled across a tabletop, but nothing to cause anything question. Nothing except.. she hadn't realized there was too people in the room. Her vision was fluffed somewhat by whatever she had been drugged with, but she would recognize them anywhere.

Theon was hunched over, the deep rivets in his spine pressing up mysteriously. He was talking quietly, so shrilly in fact that Arya took great pains to listen, though it provided no avail. And the other.. her heart hammered. More fear. This time it was obfuscated and strange, a tingling that made her want to pamper herself. _Arya Horseface. She always said I was ugly. She resented me.. just like Ramsay._ Next came the shock, a bolt through her body that shook her.

Sansa.

She watched them, listlessly and deftly trying to hear what they were saying, but she couldn't. Theon had his head down, his eyes pinched in a grimace, his lips worming their way into a sullen frown. And Sansa.. her back was to her, but that red firey hair was unmistakable. _How many times did I pull it? How many times did I loathe it?_ The memories, oddly enough, were sweet and, in a simple trivial way, made her relax.

When her chest began to contract she felt a cough and started to choke, realizing all too soon that she was laying stick-straight on a bed, hardly able to move.

Theon and Sansa were attentive immediately, and it was Sansa who ran up, wrapping a tentative arm around her sister's shoulder to pull her into a sitting position. Arya was then presented with a frigid cup of water, but it tasted sour and bitter on her tongue and she nearly spit it out.

"Breath," Sansa murmured, looking her square in the eye. That look alone made Arya balk. _She hated me. She took every chance to put me down. She probably still hates me.. especially now. She must be disgusted to look at me.._

Arya finally let out a shakey breath, glancing at Sansa who had pinched her brows. Arya swallowed. "Are you a Baratheon now?" She asked. She had heard little news from the South, hearing only small snippets from guards and passersby. Everyone was tight lipped, very much so, or maybe that was just around her. 

Sansa shook her head. "No. But you are a Bolton."

Arya flinched. "I am a Stark." _Am I? I wasn't brave. I cowered in fear. What wolf is cowed by a man?_

She saw a small flicker of a smile pass her sister's lips before it faded just as quickly. "Theon told me of.. what happened. You are safe now. The knights of the Vale will protect you, and, if all goes well, Ramsay will be dead within the fortnight. 

Arya felt a pang in her chest. _No. I have to kill him. I_ will _kill him. And make it hurt._ "No one can protect me," Arya said. "They cannot protect me from the North; from myself."

Theon had started to shuffle forward and, Arya saw, had bandages around him as well, small sticks straightening a few of his fingers and his legs. _He is broken, like me._ She felt a small spike of jealousy for her sister who had escaped so much. _No. She suffered as well.. I think. And even if she didn't, I shouldn't care. It doesn't matter._

Sansa pursed her lips, leaning back a little. "No. No one can protect you from yourself." Something glinted in the backs of her eyes but Arya couldn't place it. "I am glad you are well, but we must leave. There is finally a break in the storm and-"

"I want to learn to fight," Arya interjected, resigned. She had a little experience with Syrio Forrel back in King's Landing, and some more with Sandor, but even that was too little. She needed to learn how to kill, and to make it hurt.

"To fight?" Sansa repeated. "Arya you can barley walk-"

"Not right now. But soon. I will heal quick." _Will I though? I forced myself to walk, to eat, to breath in Winterfell. But now I am safe, I_ can _be weak and I_ can _rest. No._ "And when I do, Ramsay will pay."

Sansa sucked in a breath, turning away. "I believe he will." She turned back to Arya, pinning her with a cold, icy stare. _Tully eyes. Like ice._ "How did you get there? _Home?"_

"Its a long, bloody story," Arya replied evenly. "As I am sure yours was as well."

Sansa bit her cheek. "Yes. It was." There was a question left unsaid, as if she were begging Arya to continue. The younger Stark didn't gratify that with an answer. _She would think I'm weak. She would laugh, or mock me. She always did._

 

***

 

Sansa left the tent was a sigh falling from her lips and Theon trailing at her heals much like a dog. He was always so squemish and awkward, silent and still. It unnerved her to annoyance but she said nothing, realizing quickly that Theon had suffered near as much as Arya had. _Though he deserved it. He betrayed Robb and Mother. He betrayed the North._ For some reason, anger was the farthest thing from her mind.

Arya's words had shaken her. _She's going to get killed._ But she knew that Arya, if she so needed, would die before anything like that happened to her again. _Like what? Theon said little, leaving out the torrid details.._ It was probably for the better.

She found Petyr barking orders to some of his men, a sly smile coated to his lips. He turned as she approached, smiling wider before his eyes clung to Theon. "You have a friend," Sansa could see the mild annoyance there. "I do," Sansa confirmed, turning to watch the men. They had collapsed most of the tents, large casks and cases being filled with the stakes or supplies; salted meat, dried fruits and herbs, all creating a rather repulsive scent.

Theon lifted his head before lowering it like a whipped dog. Sansa said nothing, choosing to ignore him. "What have the scouts said?"

Petyr started to rub his temples, exhaling heavily. "They found two Bolton men near the perimeter. They were searching for the Lady Arya. They came bearing a message as well, though I am wont to leave it in the flames." He glanced at Sansa before grimacing. "A threat." He handed her a small slip of parchment.

_Dark wings dark words._

 

**Lord of The Vale,  
**

**I will have my bride back. War is coming, as sure as winter, and I do not doubt you are afraid. Fear as you like. I want your submission and your fealty. I want your men and your arms, your lands and your wives. And I want my Reek. Send me your peace, with my bride and my Reek, and lenience and piety will follow. Refuse and see the blood of all those you love. Your army. Your life.**

**Ramsay Bolton,**

**Trueborn Lord of Winterfell.**

 

Sansa sucked in a breath, feeling her heart fall against her rib cage like a brick. Something within her, an instinct similar to a motherly urge, made her crumple the paper. _He will never touch Arya again._ It was a silent vow, but one she knew she would uphold. _I may not be able to. I am weak. But I have an army, I have a people._

Petyr cleared his throat, looking bemused as she started to rip up the raven's letter. "I am glad we can agree on our feelings," he said. "Though time is of the essence. He must plan for an attack, and whatever the outcome, be it Stannis or the Boltons, we will need to be ready." He looked up. "The weather will hold through the day, I believe."

And so they began another long, strenuous march.

 

***

 

Arya was placed on a litter, so the going was slow. Most of the carts had been abandoned due to the snow, and those that were left had been swamped in supplies, barrels and jars of spices and ales, food and cloth and stakes of tents. It was all evidence of a large and powerful army, and all of it made Arya feel that much more safe.

Guards had been stationed around her little, all marching sullenly and, within the large drapes of fur, managed to still look gelid and frozen. One of them, she discretly saw, kept sparing glancing to her, though they were oddly sure and calculated. He _wanted_ her to notice, and so she did.

"Who are you?" Arya finally asked.

The man looked up. He had dark skin, the color of peat, perhaps a Summer Islander. But his hair was dyed, like a Tyroshi, oddly enough, a pale sickly red. "Do you hope for a familiar name?" He wondered. "Or simply a name to mark me as familiar?"

She paused, chewing her words. "I want a name in case I need to put you on my list."

The man laughed heartily, as if already  knowing what 'her list' was. It made her uneasy, though as soon as her thoughts started to buzz she had to lay back down, her head swimming thickly, like a puddle of wax.

"Strength goes with you, little girl, and yet you cower. It is strange, I see. Though I do not need to know why." He glanced at the other men who had taken no notice of him. "A list of names is a powerful thing, ask and one can receive. A little game I like to play."

Suddenly this all felt so familiar. "Jaqen H'Ghar?" She asked.

He shook his head. "A name is just a name. Who says I am anyone?"

She wrinkled her nose, though the act made her eye stretch painfully and she winced, which hurt even more. "You are a faceless man. No one."

He nodded slowly. "If you say I am. And who are you?"

She thought for a moment. _I am not a Stark, I am a Bolton, but that I resent. I am not a wolf for I have become a dog. I am not free for I am burdened. What am I? No one. I am no one, in truth._ "I dont know," she answered honestly, the truth of those words aching in her chest.

 

***

 

That night it was clear that the army had made it less far than anyone had hoped. The precession was cut short when swollen bulbs of snow began to fall, slick and hard like hail. A camp was quickly made within the throes of trees and thickets, a shallow trench dug (though it lay half finished around the back), and fires lit, burning brightly. The stars were hidden and so was the moon, swallowing the land in a large black belly of clouds and snow.

Arya was again settled in a tent, but she soon came to realize it wasnt the masters. She shifted uncomfortably as a large bed, (though in truth it was a glorified cot), was erected. The men paid her little heed, scampering out and away, leaving her with a small candle for company. Her throat constricted as it started to pale, dying before going out. Almost as soon as it did she heard voices, nearly shouts before someone angrily stormed into the tent, heaving the flap closed behind her.

The candle was lit and Arya saw that it was her sister, looking frustrated and beyond angered. She glanced at Arya, her gaze softening a fraction though it was not returned. _I don't trust her,_ Arya realized lamely. _And she doesn't trust me._

"Are you alright?" Sansa asked, taking a breath before speaking. She looked more calm now, though the lines in her face were drawn into a deepest frown.

Arya pinched her brows, frowning in turn. "Are you? A storm does not warrant anger such as yours."

Sansa paused before reaching to unclasp her cloak. It fell heavily into her arms, tossed aside so it thumped against a chair. "The weather certainly doesn't help." She paused. "You asked me earlier if I was a Baratheon, have you not heard?"

 _Heard what?_ Arya wondered, though she couldn't help but cynically assume that Sansa was mocking her (though deep down she doubted it). She shook her head.

"Joffrey is dead," she replied.

Arya's heart hammered and she didn't know whether to laugh or to curse. The emotions confused her terribly, and, to her utter annoyance and fury, she felt tears welling in her eye. She whiped it away, though the action made her fingers snag on the bandages around her other eye, painfully tearing part of it away. She yelped, recoiling and hissing.

She shut her eye for a moment before she felt a warm hand pressed against the side of her face, gently unwinding the bandage. "I thought you would be revolted to look at me," Arya said, though her voice shook slightly. She resisted the urge to pull away. "I am surprised you would want to."

Sansa stared at her pointedly. "And I am surprised at your reaction. Joffrey's death was a cruel twist of fate, not something to be laughed at, though hardly a matter to cry over." Her eyes softened a fraction, her guard let down. "I know you hated him. Me as well. But what was done is done."

Arya winced as the bandage was pulled away from her face, tugging at her skin. The air stung her eye causing her to whimper slightly. Anger fluttered in her chest, making her clench her fist, though that hurt too, for she still felt the remnants of frostbite.

"Ill call for a bath," Sansa said, turning to the tent opening and peaking outside. She exchanged words with one of the guards, the small one, Arya recognized. She had come to learn his name as Harrold. Harrold Hardyng. _Sansa's betrothed._ Again she wanted to laugh. The boy was fair indeed, nearly an image of what Sansa would have wanted so long ago. _But she has changed. Thats even more terrifying._

 

***

 

A large metal basin was brought in that looked suspiciously like a watering trough was brought in, along with a few servants with pales of water that, despite Arya's hopes, wasn't steaming. One of the boys, who looked to be Colemon's servant specifically, muttered something about hot water being bad for her wounds but Arya ignored him. _Whats a little more pain for the price of warmth?_

Sansa stood idle, watching as the boys left before turning to Arya. She didn't falter when her sister started to work her out of her clothes, slightly damp with now. Arya felt a growing sense of dread in her stomach- Sansa had already seen her, in all her flawed, revolting glory, and had yet to say anything about it, and she realized that the dread stemmed from her own insecurities. She had always hated it when Sansa made up cruel names for her, spewing them to every girl she could find, even the boys took to calling her Arya Horseface. It stung but she had grown used to it. But now.. now she wasn't sure she could take more of that type of banter, especially from the people she was supposed to trust.

She was drawn to her feet, nearly naked save a few scraps of clothing. Her legs were shaking and her heart was about to burst. But, as the last pieces of clothing were peeled away, she sunk into the water. Sansa remained silent the whole time, thinking behind a mask of placid impassiveness. It made Arya nervous to a fault.

The water was slightly chilled around the top, but warmer as she sunk deeper, nearly up to her nose, careful not to let her eye sink under. She had done that once, when the water was steaming, and had cried and screamed for the next hour. _Ramsay hated that._ That ended up being one of her worse nights.

"How long were you there?" Sansa finally asked, shifting around towards the back of the tub. Her eyes were dulled slightly, a look of caution and worry. It was concern, written plainly, one so genuine Arya's heart lurched. _She never looked like that before._

Sansa knelt down, the sounds of her dress brushing against the floor spiking in Arya's nerves. She half expected Sansa to start to joke or make a jape about how she looked, to smirk and scoff. But she didn't. Instead she reaches down and started to dribble water against Arya's head, careful and in small amounts so as not to hurt her eye. She ran her fingers through Arya's hair, gently, like their mother used to do.

Arya shivered, nearly leaning into the touch. It had been so long since she had felt anything that tender. "A few months. Perhaps half a year." In all honestly she didn't know. Time had passed in a liquid waxy blur.

"You've been missing for nearly two years," Sansa murmured. She continued her work, washing Arya's hair slowly, nearly painfully so. But Arya let her, relaxing as she let her breaths shake and tremble all they wanted. "Where did you go?"

Arya was going to ignore her then thought better of it. She wanted Sansa to keep doing what she was going, (regardless of how much she resented it, and possibly loved it), and she supposed the way to do that was to talk. "I escaped through the tunnels beneath King's Landing," Arya started. "Once I was out in the city, I ran into a man from the Night's Watch, Yoren. He was recruiting for the wall, and took me. I- I saw father's death from the statue of Baelor." She paused, the memories feeling icy and rancid on her tongue.

Sansa's hands left her hair for a moment before she felt them on her shoulders. She stiffened slightly but Sansa never pressed or hurt her anywhere, she simply just was _there._ "Yoren took me and.. my friends across the King's Road. Hot Pie and Gendry. Lannisters came upon us days later, so me and them escaped. The Bloody Mummers found us, bringing us to Harrenhal to work for Vargo Hoat. I became a servant. Gendry apprenticed for the blacksmith, and Hot Pie in the kitchens." The words were spilling out like vomit, tumbling past her lips.

She felt something slightly sticky and realized it was a salve type soap, one that numbed her skin. It was a queer feeling, but oddly comforting. Sansa still didn't respond, but Arya knew she was listening. _She was always good and listening, when it suited her._ "I released some of the men, Glover men, who took over the castle. Roose Bolton took charge and.. and I was his cup bearer." She decided to leave out the part about her list and Jaqen H'Ghar, knowing Sansa either wouldn't understand or would complain. "We finally escaped, stealing three horses. We were going to go to Riverrrun, but the Brotherhood Without Banners found us instead. Their leader.. she wouldn't show her face. She was grey.. her throat cut. She let us leave, though Gendry stayed behind. Hot Pie.. he took up his craft at an inn along the road. That was where the Hound found me-" Arya whimpered suddenly as Sansa touched along the dip in her back, where Ramsay always dug his nails in.

Sansa lessened the pressure, murmuring something of an apology. Arya relaxed again, feeling more and more comfortable. Her body felt numb, which was nice, but she also felt cared for. _My guard should still be up. I need to be cautious..._

"He was going to bring me to Robb and Mother but.. when I got there.. they were dead. People were dying. He knocked me out. I- there was blood everywhere, and screams. He took me for miles, planning to sell me to Aunt Lysa, before she died. But then he came across a Bolton scount who recognized me. He said that they would pay a reward to him, should he so desire." She looked down at her legs, purpled with a blush of bruises. It made her stomach heave and her mouth go dry. She could practically still feel his fingers, his gaze and his manhood. "He accepted."

That was when Sansa finally looked up, moving to the side so she could look at Arya properly. Arya hadn't realized that she was crying, a thin trail of tears constellating her face. "I'm sorry," Sansa said, reaching out a hand and whiping the tears away. "You didn't deserve that. You deserve to be happy."

Arya just turned away, shying from the touch. _Stay alert. Keep your guard up. Stay safe._

 

***

Sansa helped dry Arya off, though it was difficult. The smaller girl had very few qualms about being bared, so it seemed, though Sansa knew part of it was instinct. It made her feel worse. Petyr had made her feel that way, but she had always known she had a choice. Arya didn't. She never got to choose.

Arya was clothed in a silken shirt and soft cotton breeches, as Sansa knew she would refuse a dress. For once she didnt object, though long ago, under the eye of Septa Mordane, she might have. Arya's bed had been stationed against one of the walls of the tent, set apart from the cold hide so she would keep warm. It was considerably smaller than Sansa's own, but as Arya laid down, Sansa noticed that the girl had taken to curling in on herself, as tight as she could.

"If you need anything, let me know," Sansa said. She still felt slightly strange from their interaction a few moments prior. _She needs love. She needs protection. Am I even the one to try and give it to her?_ She didn't know, but she would leave the answer to a later time.

Arya nodded, shutting her eyes for a moment before opening them again. "You never told me how you escaped King's Landing."

The older Stark exhaled. She didn't smile exactly, but her face contorted into something similar. She could tell Arya was tired though, nearly slipping into the pillowy confined of dreams and sleep. "Ill tell you tomorrow," Sansa vowed. "Rest well." What she really meant to say was _you're safe._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is probably longer than most of them, but hey, its 11:30 at night and I have just downed two frappes so.. here ya go! Also this is going to be a slower burn than I thought. Also I hope I got the events of Arya's journey mostly accurate (its been a while).
> 
> Now that school is out I will hopefully be posting a chapter every day or every other day depending. Also thank you for all your feedback! It had really spurred me into continuing this story!


	7. Nightmare

At first it was dark. A comfortable darkness, like the bubbles of a maester's ink come to envelope her. But then it began to congeal around the edges, shears of light cropping the canvas of pitch, curling around it and devouring it. Then there was light.

It was a grey kind of light, and poured in from a glass window, fractured and broken, spilling in shards along the floor. The room was warm as well, the heat seeping in from the walls a pleasant welcome, though it beaded in small droplets along the furs of the bed.

The only noises were the distant chortling of waking crows, the mewling of a horse in the stables and the neat, steady breaths of Ramsay Bolton.

Arya shot straight up, feeling herself bare. The coverlet fell away, revealing her naked chest and torso, pocked in small scraggles of cuts and scars. She gasped, pulling her knees to her chest. Confusion welled within her gut, threatning to ripple up her throat and into a spew of words. Ramsay remained asleep, his chest pushed into the downy palate, his bulging back growing with each breath. Arya scooted away from him, feeling a familiar ache between her legs.

The memories came flooding back, the rich and the drear. _I escaped. The Vale. The knights. They saved me. Sansa.._ A startling realization hurtled toward her and she began to panic, headless of the punishment that would ensue. No. This couldnt be happening. Theon had gotten her out. Ramsay had failed. She was _safe._

Tears started to dribble down her cheeks and she pressed a palm to her lips, trying to stifle the noises. _Gods please no. Please. PLEASE._

 

_***_

The next moment she opened her eyes there was dark. She still felt tears, wriggling down her cheeks, pooling in her collarbone. There was something stale and stuffy in the air, like saddle hide or fur. _Oh._

Arya nearly sobbed in relief, a pounding in her ears, pressing against her skull. _It was just a dream. Im safe. They will protect me._ She felt an overwhelming sense of triumph and pride, but it was immediatly stamped out when she heard voices. They were faint, like the scuttling steps of rats. But they were there, just outside the tent. She squinted, a bolt of pain spiralling into her brain.

She listened, the throes of her dream making her whole world seem fuzzy, surreal. The voices were hushed in secrecy, but she heard small snippets.

"I saw her..."

"Aye. Me too... and that was it. She was gone.. poor thing.. was it her choice.. or was it _his?"_

Arya wrinkled her nose a fraction. A small bubbly candle had smoldered down to a waxy lake, but it still let off a small point of light. From it she saw little sillouetes dancing against the canvas. She could tell sunrise was not far off, so these men must be on watch. _Who were they talking about?_

She looked around the room, feeling suddenly alone. It chilled her, and, when she looked up to Sansa's bed, she saw it empty. For some putrid reason within her gut she felt a spike of fear, a tendril so thick around her throat it constricted and she felt more tears in her eyes. _No. I am safe. Shes just away for a bit. No longer. She will come back._ She also felt loathing, she had never cared whether her sister was around or not; in fact her presence was more of a bother than a blessing. 

Curling up and trying to sleep, she shut her eyes, only to find herself face to face with Ramsay again. She bit back a shriek, deciding not to close her eyes again. _Ill sleep during the march, when I am surrounded by men. Anything can happen when you are alone._

About half an hour later the tent flap peeled back and Sansa walked in. She wore considerably less than Arya expected; a simple fleece cloak over a robe of spun cotton. Her hair was mussed and tangled, as messy as Arya had ever seen it. She looked raw and tired, something flickering in the back of her eyes. Again the younger girl didnt know what. 

As she walked in she startled, looking at Arya. "Why are you awake?" She demanded. It was nearly harsh though Arya ignored that, feeling her nerves settle slightly. Gods what was wrong with her?

"Why are you?" Arya shot back. Again she felt angry, though she shouldnt. For all she knew someone had died and Sansa was forced to attend to it. But in that attire.. with the guards whispering just beyond the tent.. She shook her head. _I have the right to be suspicious. I hardly know her. Thats what you do with new people, right?_

Sansa sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed and slipping out of her robe. Her shoulders were bare but shook slightly. Arya frowned. "Its none of your buissness," Sansa replied cooly, going to replace the candle.

Arya grunted. "What happened to me was none of your buissness, but you pried anyway. You know what happened to me, yet I know nothing of you. Who are you Sansa?"

The older Stark looked momentarily taken aback, clutching the candle in her hands as if it were some miracle child. She didnt look angry, more guilty and unsure. "I told you I would tell you later-"

"But I told you then, and now you are keeping secrets. Ill kept, if I see it. And forgive me, _M'Lady_ , but if your guards know more than you care to tell me, I see a problem." She set her jaw, though it hurt slightly. She had grown to ignore the smaller pains, and even when they grey she tried her best to be apathetic. _All wounds heal._

Sansa sighed. "You are a guest here, Arya. These men are loyal to me, and they will keep my secrets." That seemed to end the conversation, leaving Arya feeling angry and, deeper down, hurt. It was a fearful kind of hurt, one that made her realize how _unsafe_ she really was. It made her feel hopeless, a roiling feeling pulsing through her veins. She wanted to scream or shout or stab someone with Needle (if she indeed had it), just _something_ to relieve herself. She didnt do that though and just rolled onto her other side. 

It took a few minutes for her to realize that the fibers of her pillow were ticking the rim of her eye, making her flinch. The candle was dampened but lit, a small flame. Sansa crawled into bed as if nothing happened, her breaths quickly becoming even. _Who are you?_ Arya wondered. She was afraid to find out.

 

***

 

The next morning Sansa awoke feeling more tired than when she had tried to sleep. The nights toil had put a drear demeanor on her shoulders, causing her to widley ignore anyone who tried to talk to her. She was thankful Arya didnt, because she felt guilty about what she had said. _I wouldnt send her away. Not really. I am truly just a stupid little girl._ Shoving those thoughts away she made her path to the council's tent, having planned to speak with Lord Petyr.

She had planned to do that under the blanket of darkness just a few hours prior, but that had been put far from his mind when he swept her into his embrace, and the many that followed it. _He was my first,_ she realized with a sickening numbness. _And will likely be my last, with the way he keeps a leash on me._

He was indeed waiting for her, leaning over the wide, raw-rowanwood table. It was the only piece of furnature left in the tent, seeing how they were too start marching again within the hour. A plate of fruit and salted beef was waiting, though she had little hunger for it. She had little hunger for _anything_ when around Petyr, a kind of feeling like emberassment, not wanting to displease her elder. And how much older was he? Thirty years? Fourty? Did it even matter at this point?

"Good morning, M'lady," Petyr bowed slightly, smiling wide. His thin, sickle face annoyed her this morning so she nodded and said nothing, trying to shove down a half shrivled apple. Rations were slim now that the storm set in and game was becoming scarcer and scarcer, that coupled with the fact that the Boltons had emptied the woods when they heard of the Vale's partaking in this strange civil battle.

"How is the Lady Arya? The maester says that she is recovering, albeit slowly," Petyr said, trying at idle talk.

Sansa nodded again. "She is healing."

Petyr sighed. "Do you trust her?" _Not really, but I should. Its unfair that I dont._ "I wouldnt. After all she had been through I wouldnt be surprised if she was the Bolton's little raven, spying on our whereabouts. You have seen that eunich, have you not? What was his name? Reek? No matter. He is broken, beyond repair, and I assume she is likewise, regardless of what Colemon says. It would be better to turn a deaf ear to her, to put her in the stead of one of our men or Lords instead of you. I have no idea why you insiting upon her staying in your chambers."

Something within Sansa snapped, a cord long since drawn taught. Arya was her family, whether either of them wanted to admit it, one of the only members she had left. She would be devastated at losing her, even if she was mightily afraid of the girl, for one reason or another. "I will not send her away and she will stay with me as long as I command. Forgive me, M'lord, but you are in no position to intervene within matters of my family."

He nodded reluctatntly. "As you say." He cleared his throat. _His lips are always dry, so is his tongue.. everything on him was just dry.._ "The scouts have been discrete, though the matter was less dire than I had expected. Stannis is readying his forces, ralleying support. But I am wont to tell you that Arnolf Karstark, Stannis's ally, so we have been told, has withdrawn a fraction. It is my belief, and that of the other lords, that he is a turncloak."

"Should Stannis not be warned?" Sansa asked.

Petyr shook his head. "It is not our place, just as that battle is not our own. The Vale will not bow, should Stannis win, and should he lose, we would lose support of any possible alliances with the other lords of the North. No. We remain as bystanders for this fight."

Sansa finally nodded. It did make sense, in a way, but she couldnt help but feel like he was manipulating her. Gods knew that he was good at it, and she was stupid, as Joffrey said. "Is that all?"

"Not quite," Petyr grinned before clenching tight on her shoulders and drawing her in for a kiss. Something about it made her feel utterly sick and vile, violated. She resisted the urge to pull back, knowing that she should just give in, at least for the time being. _His time to die will come, be it by my side or no._

She left his company quickly after, though as she was returning to her tent to finish packing up, she saw Arya slip away. The small girl still limped, and this morning she seemed disturbed, just as she had last night. Sansa couldnt bring herself to go after her however. _I am sorry for how I acted, but would Arya see that as weak? She had before, why not now? No. She had changed. We both have. It is my duty to learn how, and to help her heal._

 

***

Arya met with the Faceless man soon after, easily spotting his red beard from across the expanse of snow. He rarley spoke, she saw, and whenever he did, it was quipped, all grins and frowns. His face painted a clearer picture than any words could. "So you have come after all," she said as she approached. She couldnt help but notice the hollow way he said it, without conviction or malice, just empty words for empty eyes in an empty face.

"I want to learn to fight," Arya said. It sounded like a command, but for once in a long while she knew what she wanted. _I want to kill Ramsay. I want to make him suffer._

The main raised a bushy red eyebrow. "Oh? And how do you plan to do that?"

"You can teach me," Arya replied, keeping her voice low. Her legs were shaking but she refused to ride in a litter again.

"I only teach my students, ones devouted to the Many Faced God. You, child, are not." She chewed on that for a moment before replying. "You take lives because people want it. There is a man _I_ want dead. His name has been uttered throughout half the North, more so I'd bet. Is it not your job to deliever?"

The man shook her head. "No. The Many Faced god does not wish death upon this man, at least not by your hands."

Arya stamped her foot in frustration. " _Help me."_ She begged. "Tell me what to do. I dont care. I dont want to live my life in fear anymore. I want to know that I'll be safe wherever I go, that I can protect those like me, that I can _save_ those like me. Even the smallest bit of wisdom, anything."

The Summer Islander looked torn for a moment, a flicker of amusement flashing across his face. "Braavos is the home to many people, all kinds, all stories, all histories. You have your own to tell, and much time to tell it."

She didnt know what that meant but he walked away shorly after. She wasnt surprised she didnt see him again.

***

That day she found herself nausiated and sick. It was a kind of sickness better reserved for a wench after a foul night. Arya was placed on the little, though all the men looked equaly disgusted and cincerned. Her stomach had heaved into her throat on multiple occasions, shattering any semlblence of dignity that she had. She was barley able to move, dizzy and confused. Colemon offered her small sticks of scents like sage and lavender to calm her, but in the end she just stared at the sky.

The going was slow, and the snow had returned. A drape was set above her on wooden stilts, though it teetered and grew heavy. She watched time and time against as the men dusted it off. Eventually her vision became blurry and she tried to sleep, to no avail.

 _Why do I feel so sick?_ She wondered, her mind not able to ponder much else. _Pathetic. Craven. Useless. Weak._

That night she kept her back to Sansa, refusing a bath of any kind. She couldnt bare to stand, much more allow her sister, the one who didnt seem to care for her, to try and care for her. So she ignored it all, forcing herself to drift into a fitful sleep. 

At first all was well, an inky darkness once again consuming her. Then the pain began. It peircing and blinding, sucking her breath away. It felt as if hot tar had been poured into her eye, left to rot and smolder. But something was _in_ her eye. Something big and throbbing.

She screamed. Everything faded but the skin slapping against her nose and cheeks, the acrid stench, the dreadful and nausiating pain. She started to cry. It was all too much. "Stop!" She shrieked, trying to claw at the figure before her. Instead of pushing him away she felt sharp nails digging into her skin, holding her in place. She started to struggle, but her brain felt like it was going to explode, the world was swallowing her whole. She couldnt _breath,_ let alone _think._

"Stop!" She wailed again, her voice dying. "Please!" It was cut through with cracks and splinters as thick as her pain, and she knew that she was dying. She had to be. Blood was dripping down through her eye, or where it used to be, acting as a crude lube to Ramsay's manhood as it pushed past barrier after barrier. 

"Please! Help! STOP!"

Arya awoke screaming, gasping for breath which wouldnt come. She couldnt move, her body parazlized, suffocating. She saw a figure above her and started to scream more and more. She didnt realize she had woken up, that the figure above her wasnt Ramsay, but instead Sansa, frantically trying to pry her away from the clutches of her dreams.

Arya felt her vision go black for a moment before she blinked. Tears clung to her cheeks like sharp spikes and her throat was painfully raw from her crying. But she felt warm, soft hands lightly caressing her arms, pulling her up into a sitting position. "Arya," Sansa murmured. "Look at me. Youre ok. I promise. _Breathe."_

So Arya did. Tranquility was slow coming, the pain receding deep into her mind. When it did however, she stared into Sansa's big, blue eyes, round and full of life, and, Arya didnt dare think, _love._ It was primal, what she saw, but genuine and panicked. She felt more tears rimming her eyes so she closed them.

Sansa began running her fingers through Arya's hair, pulling the smaller girl close to her chest. Arya still felt so small, curled up under Sansa's chin, barley able to move. She was stiff and afraid, her body as rigid as brittle wood. She clutched at Sansa's nightdress, trying to pull them closer. _She isnt Ramsay. She istn Ramsay. She isnt Ramsay._

"Shhh," Sansa said, holding her tighter, breathing down across the younger girl's shoulders. "I got you. I promise. No one is going to hurt you." 

They stayed like that for gods knew how long; Arya unwilling to look up, afraid that if she did she was see Ramsay again; Sansa just being _there,_ confused and slightly uncomfortable, worried and torn. Everything was a mess, everything was broken. Recovery was far off.

***

When Arya did finally stop crying the moon, despite barley showing through the storm, was high. Wind buffeted the sides of the tent, and Arya could hear the knashing teeth of great pines and sentinals beyond. It reminded her of the growling of wolves, deep and harsh.

Arya lifted her head, finding Sansa's Tully eyes again. Her mane of red hair engulfed them both, bedraggled and knotted, but it still felt soft. Like home. She refused to let her pride, or what she believed it was, to get in the way of this. She was hardly thinking straight and, in all truth, so was Sansa.

"I- Im sorry, Sa- M'Lady. I-"

"Shh," Sansa said, smiling a little, though her lips were drawn nearly into a grimace. "Youre ok. Dont apologize."

Arya nodded, gulping down a knot of dread. "Are you ok?" Sansa finally asked, looking her younger sister up and down, the same primal concern and worry written clear as day. Arya nodded, forcing herself to turn away. _I wont sleep again. Not now. In my dreams is when I see him. It will only stop when he's dead._

Sansa started to stand off, brushing off her gown, though not in a way that suggested disgust or apathy, but rather caution and trepidation. Arya felt something thick in her gut as she watched her sister climb back into her own bed, looking back to watch her. It was a queer feeling, one Arya resented greatly. But she wanted, no, _needed_ connection. She would deal with the consequences on the marrow. 

"P-please.. I.. I need.." Arya couldnt formulate the correct words. _I need you._

There was something then that flashed across Sansa's face, so raw and powerful it shocked the both of them. "Come here," Sansa whispered, pulling the thick fur pelts back and away from the bed. Arya swallowed and stood shakily, knowing Sansa would pick her up again if she fell.

She slowly crawled into the bed, shaking a little, though from the cold or her own damn nerves she didnt know. Sansa smoothed out the furs, tucking them around Arya to keep her warm. They stared at eachother for a long moment before Sansa started to speak. "I am sorry about last night. I shoulnt have said that. You know I wouldnt turn you away. I couldnt. You are family and 'The lone wolf dies vut the pack survives'," They said the last bit together, earning small smiles, quickly lost.

"Thank you," Arya said softly. Her voice was still tembling and betrayed her. A part of her wanted to get closer to Sansa, closer to her warm sister, but the other part told her not to. This was the first time she slept with anyone else since Ramsay, and it sent knots of fear coursing within her already pressured veins. She wasnt sure she could take much more.

Sansa smiled a little, reaching out to stroke Arya's hair. They were lost in a perpetual state of confusion, which Arya liked, more than she had first thought. It was nice having someone touch her again, even if just slightly. "I know you dont trust me, but I would like to regain that trust. What happened last night.." She paused her hands for a moment, causing Arya to stiffen before continuing. "I was with Lord Baelish." The true meaning of that was left unsaid.

Arya bit her lip, snuggling a little closer. _More. I need more. More warmth. More love._ She didnt move any closer. "I hope he treats you well," Arya murmured, feeling herself tire. She didnt even objcect to sleep this time.

But Sansa did.

She remained awake, stroking Arya's hair, brushing it away from her pale, scarred face. "Youre safe."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright so something is going to happen in the next chapter that honestly has been on my mind (if not for the story then personally), considering the politics of the place I currently live. Its wrong and its putrid but its something I'm surprised didnt happen in the show (considering a certain quote from Ramsay and the context of it).
> 
> Anyway, thanks for all the support!


	8. Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't posted sooner. A bunch of shit came up and I had a couple other projects that I was (and still am) working on. So anyway, this chapter is a little shorter, but I FINALLY got to the part where this whole idea came from. 
> 
> Not quite sure when the next chapter will be out but hey, never say never.

Arya awoke slowly, though this was hardly anything strange to her. Ever since she had fled to the army of the Vale, she found herself at ease more often than not, allowing herself to be whisked away into the throngs of sleep and dreams. Though as of last night, this little pact within her mind was about to be rewritten.

It was still slightly dark, large black ribbons skirting the tent like snakes. The candle had gone out, though small big-sized dots lined the hides of the walls where fires glowed beyond. It was a lot more comforting than Arya remembered, and yes, she did remember her dream. She also remembered her sister. That memory came sluggishly, as if forced down by some heavy weight, perhaps dignity or pride.

She stirred, rustling the coverlet. It smelled faintly of pine and sage, and, fainter still, of rock and soot, perhaps from the Vale. When Arya had first seen it she had wondered how Sansa always looked so comfortable in it, sleeping within a pelt of an animal that did not reside in Winterfell's surrounding woods. She herself, on the long road from place to place, had always tried to find some connection in whatever she slept in, though most often times it was Needle, and even that was gone now.

Sansa slept next to her, albeit distanced, leaving plenty of cold sheet between them. Arya felt a sinking feeling in her gut, one she assumed was out of loathing or regret, but instead found it more physical. All too late she realized her stomach was rolling over itself and she jumped up from the bed, dashing outside to retch.

The snow was frigid on her bared feet, making her shiver, but she couldn't go back inside, not when her stomach was basically spewing itself out of her mouth. It was hot and sickly and vile, wriggling up through her throat like a worm, or, better yet, a scream. She wasn't sure when she stopped, but she _was_ sure of the hands gently grabbing her hair and holding it back away from her face, lightly stroking it. She didn't have to turn to know it was Sansa.

When she finally did finish the horizon had a red tinge to it, followed by a lighter kiss of orange. With dawn came a peril, for snow had started to fall yet again. Arya noted that a mountain of the stuff had clung to the tent, to every little crease it could find, freezing it into tight flaps of armored ice.

Arya felt her knees start to go weak, her nausea returning. She tried to shake it off which, unsurprisingly, only made the feeling worse. "Come here," Sansa whispered, pulling Arya back against her chest, into her lap. She hadn't realized it but the older Stark had strung her favorite thick cloak about her shoulders, which she now wrapped around Arya protectively. "The cold is the last thing you need right now."

The younger Stark wanted to laugh, but didn't. All that came up was a dry, hallow cough, willing something to throw up but ending up without. Arya did shiver then, feeling Sansa's hands running across her arms, raising goose pimple wherever she touched.

"Ser!" Sansa called, her loud press of breath reverberating through Arya's body.

A knight came scrambling over, clad in armor that was shelled in a thin layer of frost. His beard had frozen to thick red claws and he moved stiffly, so stiffly in fact that Arya thought he was half a statue. Before she even realized it, he had hefted her into her arms, cradling her like a babe. There was something unsaid between the men of the Vale and Sansa, something wrought in respect and admiration, a mutual trust.

Arya was lain down first on her own bed, then, to surprise both her and the strange man, was settled on Sansa's bed. She was closer to the edge this time, a metal tub provided by a washer girl. In truth, however, she doubted if she could retch up anything ever again. Her stomach felt as empty of her heart. But something still felt _wrong,_ a bubbling fire beneath her skin, like a liquid pouch. She squirmed for a moment, trying to put a finger on it; something in the back of her mind though, told her it was _bad._

Sansa carefully sat down next to her, still clad in her thick and heavy cloak, now dusted in a small frill of snow. "Are you alright?"

Arya nodded, not quite trusting herself to speak.

Sansa pursed her lips. "You look pale. I'll sent for the maester."

Finally the young Stark spoke. "I'll be fine. Its just an upset stomach. Probably something I ate."

The sun had streaked into the sky, leaving a tail of blood in its wake. Though neither of them could see it, they could tell it was there, beyond the thick layering of downy clouds, which looked darker today, though the air felt dryer.

"Neither of us are getting to sleep, I dont think," Sansa said idly. "You wanted to know about me; you hate being left in the dark, is that true?"

 _In more ways than one._ "Yes."

"I should tell you about Joffrey, though I hate to do it. He was a vile creature, one better suited to his pyre than his throne. But he taught me many valuable lessons, and that is infallible." Sansa paused for a moment, gauging Arya's reaction. There wasn't one. "He was cruel, that's true, but he was also blind and impulsive. I grew to know him, all his antics and desires. But I also learned that he turned a blind eye when it suited him. That was my out. I was visited by a fool, one I previously saved from an execution; he was a sorry fool, at best, a former knight. He ended up saving me, though I was stupid. I thought he was kind hearted. Only little girls could believe that. He took me to Lord Baelish, selling me as one might sell a sheep. He was killed though, and that I do not regret. He lied to me, and people who lie to me often find themselves dead." A wicked smile crossed her face for a moment.

"What about Joffrey?" Arya asked, not sure really what to say.

"The reason I fled King's Landing was because of Joffrey's death. He was to be married to Margaery Tyrell," something pained crossed Sansa's face just then, one written so clearly and with such remorse that it took Arya aback. "That was the day he died, poisoned. I was prosecuted as the culprit, though I assure you it was not me. Many blamed the Imp, which is just as well, but I doubt is was him either. 

"I was taken to the Fingers, though that is largely unimportant. A singer, Marillion, attempted to rape me. He sourly found himself within the watch of Lothar Brune. When Lord Baelish took me to the Vale, it was as his bastard daughter, Alayne, for my own protection. Lysa married him, though it was a union as unwilling as mine own." She sighed, seeing Arya's confused expression. "You lived under a rock, Arya. I was married to the Imp, the Lannister. He never consummated the marriage, and yet I still hate him." She cleared her throat, tossing the cloak to the side. "When in the Vale I learned and watched, for there was naught else I could do. That was until aunt Lysa's death." She bit her lip. "Arya, what happened that day has remained a secret, and it must needs continue that way. Do you understand?"

Arya nodded.

"Good. That day was the first time Petyr kissed me. It was out in the gardens, in the snow. Aunt Lysa saw. When she spoke to me it was the words of a mad woman, though one in love all the same. She threatened to throw me out the Moon Door. Petyr stopped her. He held her in his arms before pushing her through, blaming the singer, Marrilion for her death. The alliance forged with the lords of the Vale hinges on this secret remaining discrete. Speak of it to no one ever. It would ruin so much."

Arya chewed on this for a long while. _Who killed Joffrey, if not the Imp? Why did Sansa looked so pained when speaking of the Tyrell? What happened to Marrilion?_

Sansa continued. "I recived word that you had been taken by the Boltons. That was largely why I commanded this force be rallied. To the others, the choice was Petyr's. The siege was to be under the guise of Winterfell, our home, their ally, and its restoration, something the Boltons failed to do. But I am wont to admit that the first thoughts of war were because of you, Arya."

There was a long, thick moment of silence. The air felt so congealed and rotten that Arya nearly choked. _For me? Why? She hated me._ "Why?" She asked.

Sansa gulped, looking again, pained. "I never hated you Arya. I didn't like who you were, though you are my sister. I could never hate you then, and I certainly don't now. I know we do not know each other, and are held together only by bonds of blood, but I want to change that. My time away.. watching Father's death, hearing of the Red Wedding, of Rickon and Bran.. it made me realize how quickly everything you love and care about can disappear in a heartbeat. I want to remedy that, I don't want to take this time forgranted." She met Arya's eyes. "Not now, especially not now."

She didn't know how to respond. A weight seemed to be lifted off her shoulders, though trepidation remained. It was true, she hardly knew her sister, but she wanted to try. _Dont get too close. Thats what you learned. Your family was slaughtered. Your friends abandoned you. Sandor sold you to your worst enemies. Dont trust them. Dont trust her._ The voice inside her head was bleating like a foal, but she tried to push it down. No. She would be better.

***

  
 That day Sansa wanted Arya to ride with her. Sansa presented the younger girl with a steady tempered mare, smaller in size. She was ill-fed, in all honesty, due to the rations, but she was kind and surefooted. A younger Arya would have preferred a mount with a hot head, one willing to run as fast as the wind and take her with him. But not now. Even if Arya wanted that, which she showed no signs of, it was dangerous. The girl had been sick as a dog all morning, heaving up most of what she tried to eat. She was parched and weak, trembling.

Sansa did her best to make her feel better, though her efforts did little and less. Ayra remained small and meek, refusing simple touches and graces. Finally Sansa relented, giving her food and water plenty, as well as furs to keep her warm. As the march of the day began, she looked better, bundled in ermine and wolf furs. She looked warm and _alive._

Neither of them spoke of the previous night. It was clear the subject should be broached another, farther off time, which they minded not at all. 

"There are knights who would be willing to teach you to spar," Sansa said. She was surrounded by trusted knights, Lothar Brune among them. The others were a merry assortment, some Waynewood and others Yohn, but they remained stout faced and courageous as ever. Petyr rode toward the front of the procession, as was usual, talking with Bronze Yohn. _A few more nights.. Winterfell will be ours._

Arya looked down. "I would like that." 

Sansa frowned. "There are many men here who are as skilled as Ser Rodrik was, or even the Dragonknight, though they don't know it yet. Harrold is a master with sword and lance, though I have yet to see it. Give them a chance, Arya. They might surprise you."

Sansa watched Arya like a hawk, protective and terse. She didn't know what to expect of the girl, nor what Arya was capabale of. She remembered her talk with Petyr. He had seemed earnest in his worries and assertions, which troubled Sansa even more. Though it was in fact strange that her sister, though of as dead for over a year, had suddenly appeared, broken and battered as only a child could be. Her emotions were at war with one another, a terrible, blood-spilling kind of battle that left her disoriented and confused.

 _This was how I felt before I married the Imp._ She thought of Margaery, the kind, ever so gentle girl from Highgarden. Sansa felt a pang in her chest, worrying at her lip. She didn't know what had happened after she left, other than a few scattered ravens and whispers of the small folk. _Tommen will marry Margaery. She will be queen._ Sansa sighed. That time in her life was over. She was moving on, and it would be better suited sooner rather than later.

"I am sick of surprises," Arya said.

Sansa looked down at her reins, her knuckles turning a ghastly shade of white. _I want to help her, but I don't know how._

The snow was falling in a steady stream, only perturbed by the well places boughs of trees. They shook and trembled in the wind, spilling their drifts over the precession in tidal-like waves. Sansa felt a rope of snow trickle down her cheek, like a tear. _Its only fitting._

Thats when she heard a gasp. It was breathy and confused. "Arya?" Sansa wheeled her horse around just in time to see Arya fall from her own, clutching her stomach. The snow caved in around her, swallowing her like some great beast. She was shivering violently, though sweat beaded her brow. "Arya!" Sansa shouted again, hopping off her horse to kneel beside her sister. "Arya whats wrong?" She was panicking, unsure of what was happening.

Arya groaned, curling in on herself like a babe.

Sansa just gaped. "Get maester Colemon!" She shouted to no one in particular. "Now!"

A few men went to oblige, shifting off their own mounts to run down to the procession towards the center. Sansa pulled Arya up, trying to get her out of the snow and to stand up. Sansa was basically carrying her by then, her sister dead-weight, shaking violently and clutching her stomach still. Sansa's thoughts immediately went to poison, and she felt her heart constrict. No. Poison would be different. At least that's what she hoped.

***

Arya was blinded by pain. It was searing and emanated strongly from between her legs and around her stomach. It felt like so many worms slipping and sliding over one another, all angling to get down and out of her. She groaned again, her breathing erratic, her heart beating madly in her ears. She wanted to scream, but it died in her throat.

The searing head came in waves, satiated only by the occasional perfectly timed breath or lack there of. Then she heard footsteps, though it was distant. Her thoughts were congealing like rotten blood, her senses dazed and all spiked with _something._ Adrenaline and shock nearly split her veins wide open, and her head was throbbing. Everything _burned_ or hurt, or felt like she was going to die right then and there.

Sansa was holding her, keeping her upright, though she wanted to fall again. To collapse and just stay there. _A cold death is a warm one,_ she thought bleakly. Then she was being carried, the gentle din of mail on metal relaxing her. The man's armor was cold to the touch, the type of cold that starts out as hot. But she ignored it, soothed by his steady and strenuous breaths. _I don't even know his name._

A tent was erected hastily, and many knights were angrily stomping their feet. Some of them even shouted at her, waving their fists. Arya wasn't able to look around, but she saw, through her bleary peripheral vision, that men were enraged. The snow had worsened, piling up around horse's ankles and teething at the wheels of carts. _We'll gut stuck here if we don't move._ She couldn't put a voice to her words, so instead resigned herself to the lull of the man's footsteps and the shouts of her sister.

She didn't realize when she was laid out on a crude model of a bed, whipped thin and thread-bare. It was oddly comfortable, however, and warmed by a hotplate (gods knew how that was possible). Arya curled in on herself further, feeling the calloused hands of the maester tugging at her arms. Finally she managed to down a chalky dose of milk of the poppy, but she wanted to wretch it all up again.

The ache below her stomach had turned to a stinging bubbly mess, almost like her skin was being boiled off from underneath. It was dulled slowly by the milk, too slow in fact. She squirmed and shifted, feeling a blanket fall over her chest, leaving her stomach exposed. She didn't know and didn't care what the maester was going to do, and didn't have the willpower to look up, not that it mattered anyway; her eyes were as heavy as lead, slowly close.

Then everything melted into an oily darkness.

***

Sansa watched hazily, her mind reeling as if she had downed too much wine. She didn't quite know what was happening, but knew something was horribly horribly wrong. It disturbed her deep to her marrow, where it clung like a leach, sucking every ounce of composure and surety from her being.

"Whats happening to her?" Sansa asked, her voice low and strained.

The maester sighed. He was feeling around Arya's stomach, waiting patiently as she slowly lapsed into a fitful sleep. He was pressing around her legs, and above her thighs, to her maidenhead. Sansa looked away, shivering. It was then that a guard peeked in, averting his gaze only to look squarely at Sansa. "M'lady, the men have been wondering why we've stopped. The snow is getting worse, and they are afraid we'll get stuck."

Sansa pursed her lips. "Send the procession onward. Petyr is in charge, is he not? Leave some guards here. A dozen, perhaps." She spoke with a shaky certainty, one she couldn't hide the bite from. Nor did she want to. _They need to know I have teeth. And so does Petyr._

Finally the maester looked up. He was stricken, his face pale. "She is with child."

Sansa's heart seemed to slow then stop. "What?" She demanded.

 _"_ M'lady, she is with child. I am certain. As for her condition.. it must be an infection of some sort. If I knew what had happened to her, perhaps I could gauge-"

"No." Sansa said, rubbing her temples. "No. No. No! There has to be something you can do!"

"There are a great many things I can do," Colemon said slowly. "But I must know what happened to her. If you do not know, she will. It is fundamental in fact."

_I'm so sorry, Arya. I'm so sorry._

 

 


End file.
